Flash in the Pan
by Albatross Zeta
Summary: Not long after Buster's success, a new showman walks into town, laying down the gauntlet at the New Moon Theater's feet, promising to crush the theater. The troop hit one home run, but can they do it twice? Meanwhile, the other players have their own strings to untangle...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination Entertainment. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners.

Author's Note: I will be shifting around POVs, throughout. Be aware of that. Italics represents thought or past events

That said, do enjoy.

 _Flash In The Pan_

Chapter 1:

A dapper dressed flamingo loitered outside a video store, the kind with a smorgasbord of different televisions brimming in LCD colors. On all of them were the news, with a portly, effeminate cat and a showman koala chatting on. Most casual observers wandered away, able to catch the news on DVR or at home. The flamingo however remained erect and invested, even as salesmen tried to get his attention. They even threatened to turn off the TV.

The flamingo politely asked what size cast they would need for their broken limbs.

The program went on, all without a problem. The cat drummed up interest, and the koala made his own bold predictions over the tube. The flamingo figured the theme: Success begetting expectations. The higher the climb the greater the fall, but when one builds himself from rock bottom, well, the best one can do is keep going. When that show went through, and the citizens young and old ventured out into the embrace of the 'refurbished' Moon Theater...at first, the usual happened when an unmitigated success blared through. Promises of future interviews, debate from online forums, and other sunshine hopefuls, all interested in a sliver of the pie...these tones underlined the conversation as he listened. When stars rise, stars that were always there but never existed before, some folks are a wee bit curious as what might happen next.

The flamingo, upon hearing this, rubbed a feather on its curved beak. The interview came to an end, along with a final boast from the koala:

"When I was designing this show, our little troop performed for ourselves and the love of the arts. I encourage anyone else with such passion to come and perform. The New Moon Theater is the best place to find entertainment in the bay area. If anyone else says otherwise, well, I welcome them to try."

"Challenge accepted, Mr. Moon."

He grimaced. The wings felt clipped, but raw from earlier. Disdain colored beyond just its pink décor, and a simple, victorious truth amplified through his head.

 _What does he know? Anyone can sing._

Some want to stamp that budding future out.

- _Sing_ -

 _Two weeks later (July 31_ _st_ _)..._

Luck replaced Buster's blood some time ago. Much as a short-stacked gambler, Buster had come to rely on putting his chips on hope that the cards would fall his way. He wasn't much of a card-player, as his fellows might educate him on the difference between a gamble and a risk. But Buster defied that: Despite being destroyed once over, his luck swung back as a furious pendulum. With but a brush it filtered from sunny to rainy and back to sunny.

Despite that good fortune, Buster still preferred the comfort of the theatre as his abode. The problem, as the news and kids nowadays implied, was what was next. Two weeks gone and nary a rehearsal, with the damage wrought from the flooding.

Not for lack of trying, however, but in a sense of what show to put on.

"Ms. Crawley! Where are those scripts ideas I had yesterday?"

"Coming, Mr. Moon." She doddered on. Only a pair of titles were there. The choices, threadbare as they appeared, partially made Moon grimace. Another casualty of the flooding he caused.

"Only these...well, we'll have to bounce some more around. Ms. Crawley? Did you ever get in contact with the old stagehands we had-" _That I never paid._

"They're unavailable, Mr. Moon."

"Huh?"

"They said they already accepted an exclusive contract two weeks ago."

Buster grimaced at that. It was impressive that he got by with only Eddie and Meena as stagehands during their breakout performance, but if they were going to do much more than a singing concert (and he understood the necessity of freshening up his shows), he needed more animal power. He even had the money to back the crew this time around.

"Ms. Crawley, I'll be out for a bit with the rest of the troop. Hold all my calls until I get back. We need to start gathering ideas for the next show. Also, get some flyers for help wanted. I know Eddie can handle what he can, but we need more feet behind the curtains."

"Right away, Mr. Moon."

The old chameleon dropped out at this. The paperwork and expectations were piling high in equal fervor, and it took much to merely get both ends, when so short-staffed under control.

Buster looked up at his new grand opening picture. Despite the short amount of time passed, the need to 'dust off the old girl', had been embraced with both passion and patience. Dedication to the theater was balanced by the responsibilities of living. Johnny, Meena, and Ash had all taken part-time jobs, so their availability, despite their own pledges, shifted with the responsibilities of a car mechanic, an ice cream vendor, and a musician at pubs, respectively. Rosita, despite being a stay-at-home mom, put her children first in every endeavor. Mike had resurfaced a week ago, mentioning briefly that he was ready 'for a fresh coat on the wall'. Arguments had been exchanged, but Mike had been embraced back. Gunter, meanwhile, focused his time as a personal trainer, but never allowed that to impede his commitment.

That was six workers. Good enough for a concert, but what else?

Exiting in secret after ensuring Ms. Crawley made the call, he found the classic of his bike, and memory laid siege to awareness.

 _San Francisco Bay Network: The premier capital of the news for San Fran's technology-starved audience: Kip Casey's rotund form chatting merrily and informatively with him. Cat and koala exchanged pleasantries, the news reporter doing his best to change the narrative of their previous accusations, and the showtime manager promoting his work while at the same time mending fences. Not fiery enough to catch the attention of the casual viewer. But enough for him._

 _It had been almost immediate with the summoning._

 _"So, Buster, the public is salivating for your next piece. Any hints? Some teasers?"_

 _Buster, ever the showman, played hot and cold. "Well, the New Moon Troop is actively getting our next big blockbuster in the works, but you'll have to wait a bit longer, Kip."_

 _"Oh, well, but you certainly feel the pressure, now, don't you? You've got fans rounding the sidewalks to see that next 'blockbuster'. Can we at least know what to expect?"_

 _"No, no…you'll have to wait and see."_

 _"Well, all right. Whatever you concoct, I'm sure the eyes of San Fran will be upon you. Anything you'd like to give to the fans?"_

 _At this, Buster chuckled heartily, a laugh satiated on demonstrated confidence. "When I was designing this show, our little troop performed for ourselves and the love of the arts. I encourage anyone else with such passion to come and perform. The New Moon Theater is the best place to find entertainment in the bay area. If anyone else says otherwise, well, I welcome them to try."_

That had been a not-so-subtle intent for recruitment. Unfortunately, as Buster was learning, his...'credit' was still half-and-half. One hand, he hit the proverbial home run. On the other, one gleaming success, even when buffered by media perception and his own talents, did not completely erase history.

Knuckles 'n' Chuckles Ice Cream had been a specific point of interest for the troop in the aftermath, in that it served as a centralized location. Meena had found herself a part-time job here, and both Ash's apartment, Gunter's clients, and Johnny's job weren't far. Mike and Rosita were repeat customers, if the hyena employers were anything to go, but the job also seemed smack-dab in the middle of the main road. People passed the vendor so often that they often didn't realize it.

As such, he had deduced it a good a meeting place as any, given The Moon Theater was still a bit off. The hyena proprietors actually had no problem with him holding a creative meeting here, provided they get a picture of the Troop before the next performance. Ever rich on promises, Buster acquiesced.

Unfortunately, professionalism didn't always hold hands with passion. Of his volunteers only Johnny and Rosita were there at the far end. Perhaps in respect to their novel celebrity status, the hyenas made a point of keeping the other customers out of sight. After some degree of greeting, the matter of deliberation came forth. Getting the next show off the ground might be a bit more difficult than anticipated.

-Sing-

Elsewhere in the city, frustration of another sort boomed.

Every artist felt the current agony she felt, not of the physical but as equivalent as popping fingernails: the laptop screen had been purged on more than one occasion, though the reasoning and cause had been twofold. The clock at the bottom had long been forgotten in her immersion.

Ash grimaced in spite of herself. The emotion, the intent, the cords in her head, all of that was there...but gluing it all together...that fell flat.

Part of it simply was emotion. When she made her first song, emotions spurred her on. Rage, jealously, despair, hope, sadness, liberation, joy, revelation, and the friction of ardor all melded within her brain to piece chord to chord, note to note, bar to bar. The words belted out in equal trudging labor. Would a rhyme here fit the tune there? Did it matter if star or sun were used? In honesty, she hadn't really critiqued it in its construction, formulating it slowly but quickly in days. Moon had been the first to hear it privately, and his encouragement spurred her on.

Lance and the memories connected to him bubbled deep as she clicked on her laptop. Still only one line.

 _Where has the magic gone._

The start had been workmanlike. Mindless and almost void. The words, even when supported with a few chords, a drifting storm of her favored rock, lacked the vitality of her own music. It didn't sing. It didn't energize. It didn't entice, seduce, or proclaim. The words vanished again under the delete button.

She groaned. A familiar urge bubbled, the image of her ex striving back up. She kicked it back down.

Her eyes journeyed back to the clock. Hours escaped her eyes and another subsequent groan escaped her lips. She had been working on this for hours and she couldn't get a more than a line out?

 _What the hell?_

Powering down the laptop, she scuffled her guitar into its case for her nightly gig. The skills needed to be kept, and she needed to meet with Moon before she got in. Keeping in touch had become its own challenge, among the other necessities of life.

The good news was that she didn't see Lance. The freedom rejuvenated her too this day, but it also stung-implying that still, despite for the most part pushing past the drama, she felt a tinge of agony from his cheating heart. She looked at the couples young and old as she walked crosswalks and sidewalks: Their animated joy or quiet contentment reflected darkly back onto her. The held hands reminded her of waiting from the subway train, hand in hand with Lance. The young couples chatting about everything from Eddie Lizard to Salaman' Tanta, she could paint the silhouettes of the past on them.

And therein lied the problem. Despite her freedom, the jerk was _still there_.

She had made it a point to avoid the cafe, or any such place that might cause her to run into Lance, but the imagery prickling her brain curled in.

She would need to rock hard tonight. That always worked. Distracting her mind, the shame and agitation and the creeping silence banished everytime she brandished her axe…and the Moon Theatre troop supplied plenty to it. Mere presence erased any such problem at least for the time.

A kindred smirk, lazy but genuine, dashed onto her lips. The camaraderie forged in the simplicity of staging a free show energized and soothed. Beyond just being fellow performers, they had found means to help one another. Meena and Ash, despite their noticeable differences in tact and approach, found a desired trait in the other. Johnny was certainly easy on the eyes and more than willing to carpool if needed. Gunter, in spite of his flamboyance, kept everyone grounded and positive. Rosita, meanwhile, let her own motherly instincts assist as needed. Ash, in turn, had helped watch the kids one night, so as Rosita and her hubbie could get some 'me-time'.

Though, truthfully, Ash had been smart in her altruism. She made damn sure to get some help watching those 25 piglets, and the uncanny commotion kept her own grievances at bay. Though, as many things, they were temporary.

The streetcar rumbled by her as she got closer. Construction's melody boomed and rattled all around her. In the past week hard-hats became in vogue, with the flood of workers flooding the streets. Not merely the crew hired by Nana (that was an old lady Ash had a time relating to), but just up on the main street, every time she went to her gigs, she saw the yellow tape and the orange cones and the mammoth trucks coalescing at the same area. A strange, three-story black building, shaped too conspicuously like a theatre itself, grew from the center of San Francisco, nameless but looming next to its businesses.

"When you set it all free, all free, all free…" She muttered. Her stomach groaned. She forgot food in her brainstorming. Again.

The thoughts, rippling and rampaging, rifted an unfortunate problem. Selective focus can make one forget where the hell one was standing, after all. A working construction crew, with the rhythm of saws and hammers blots out the quietude of speech. The management of loading equipment, ranging from cushions to deluxe pianos and unicycles and iron maidens…

She saw it before anyone else.

"Hey, Hey HEY! WATCH OUT!"

He didn't hear the panicked calls. Everyone else heard it, but they saw the sliding dolly and its cumbersome load fly before they noticed the target. The target in question was arguing on a cellphone, quills too animated to see the hulk heading towards him. The quills blocked vision, and failed to catch the rush.

A pair of furry hands jostled her own of her own reservoir, pulling her and this dumb porcupine close into a breathing shield. The dolly flew right by, chases down San Francisco's slopes by a pair of panicked workers. However, an untied shoelace, close proximity, both Ash and her surprise 'hostage', the weight of the iron maiden at the specific moment, and the sheer ending of the sidewalk, conspired to a single madcap prophecy.

Both of them fell into the middle of a San Francisco rush hour traffic. Both of them butted heads twice: Once against each other, and the second time against pavement (for the nameless porcupine) and a rear view mirror (for Ash). Stars danced and groans escaped.

"Glasses…my glasses…"

His hands fumbled briefly on cooling pavement. Ash grabbed her wits and his hand in the sliding realization ( _We're in the road we're in the road we're in the road we're in the damn road!_ ). Adrenaline hulked out and rolled them both quickly out of the way, despite blaring horns, rampant middle fingers, and slew of swearwords.

"Glasses…where?"

Ash looked down, a black holster in jeopardy of rolling into the sewers. Her hand darted out.

"My guitar…Ah!"

Kicked around its case and darn near forced out, but thankfully the iron maiden hadn't destroyed the thing…if her axe got crushed, she…

"Hey. A thank-you would be nice."

The porcupine was on his hands and knees, touching around on the sidewalk, grumbling what sounded like 'contact lenses'. Ash tapped him once on the shoulder, and she forcibly put the glasses case into his hand.

"My case? But I need my…"

She pointed down. His glasses, thankfully were right at his feet, nearly crushed in all of the commotion.

"Ah…let me just…"

The porcupine slid them on, and they both got a very good look at each other.

Ash wasn't sure what this dumbass's thoughts were, but she had memories of Lance and success in a concert to remind her of wonderment. He stood a little taller than her, lanky, and wearing a business-casual ensemble: Straitlaced and nerdy, like he belonged in an office cubicle, even with pens and a notepad in his pocket. The quills, though equally long like her, were kept orderly, in flowing rows. Shoes that constantly demanded a shine and oval glasses rounded out the rather stuffed shirt guy. His face, though…it brimmed expression. She was certainly, consciously tossing the most "I'm-Not-Impressed" looked she could muster, but he still seemed dazed.

"Well, as I live and breathe," He waxed out, "That sprouted a tussle."

" _Ahem_."

"Oh…right. We're a might bit lucky."

"You almost got flattened by that iron thing and you got nothing but luck?"

The porcupine adjusted his glasses, surprised, it seemed, by her vigor.

"Well, yes…I…I wasn't keeping…"

"You shouldn't be on your phone all the time. It might get you killed."

"My phone?" Panic swelled in his voice. "My phone! Where-"

The essence of comedy? Timing is everything. No sooner did the porcupine ask, a resounding crunch reached their ears. Both him and her looked to the streets, seeing the innards of hardware and SD cards littering the pavement. His expressive face dropped almost instantly.

"Oh…sorry?" Ash said. "Better the phone than-"

"Oh…he's gonna kill me."

"Hey! If you aren't gonna thank me, then I'll leave you to your mid-life crisis."

"I'm 19! I'm not old!"

For a moment, Ash and her rescued party glared at each other: Him bristling at the slight at his age and her smirking almost in sardonic attitude. But he relented in a sigh.

"I'm sorry. That…that was rude of me. Thank you, miss, for keeping me from…"

"Getting flattened like a pancake?"

"Yes."

"Reduced into roadkill and popping a tire?"

"Yes."

"Saving your glasses from a toilet cruise?"

" _Yesss."_ He gritted out. "Yes, yes, all of those. Look…I appreciate what you did, but don't string me up just yet. I got a line forming right now, because of that phone, miss…"

"Ash." She plainly said. A second later she wondered why she even gave her name.

"Ash…Ash…" He drifted almost immediately away. A hand reached for his notebook.

"If you write down my name, creeper-"

Placating hands shot up almost instantly. "Easy! Geez! This is business, not pleasure!" Though he subconsciously winked at her.

Great. Now he was attempting to flirt. Dork.

"Look, guy, I got to go. I'm already going to be late-"

"Morty."

"Huh."

"My name. It's Morty." He pulled a card out from his shirt pocket. "I'm new around here, and I gotta get this show on the road, but…look, I got to do something as a thanks."

"Thanks?"

Her thoughts were a slight bit jostled, but they both could hear breaking glass, groans, and shrieks. Apparently, the iron maiden finally stopped rolling downhill, finding its way into a rustic, charming, china shop.

"There goes half my pay," He groaned. "I damn knew I should fastened them better."

"Well dumbass, welcome to life. Unlucky stuff comes."

"You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?" He spoke incredulously. His ignorance failed to detect just how cutting his words were, but his face hunched in, as she turned silent almost instantly.

"Bad subject?" Morty asked, placating in his words.

"..."

"Alright, I'm sorry. I'm just batting a thousand today. Listen, uh, here…" He extended a card. "That's my work number. I want to properly thank you, so...just leave me a message, and we can…we can…do…uh…"

"Hey." Ash butted through his deliberations. Now he was having a hard time looking, his eyes turned away to the street, with the card extended out. "Hey, look at me." He didn't. "Look at me."

He did that time.

"No promises."

Morty looked a bit relieved. "So there's a chance."

"Just I'm not used to fans-"

"I've never seen you before. And that's my line."

"Who the heck are you anyway?"

"Check my card."

Ash pulled her own card out, for the Moon Theater. "Check mine."

"Ok…" Morty's hands jostled, but he kept his eyes on her. She likewise seemed to keep his eyes on him as he took her card.

"So…plays?"

"Gotta go." Ash flung up the horns of hard rock and continued on her way. In her pocket was his card, shaped amusingly like a joker playing card. She didn't read it. She needed to get to her gig.

"Ok. Thanks again, you…fine…"

She didn't hear the rest, or dare ask what he was going to say next. She looked back once, but he was retreating to his construction workers.

Morty looked back after she turned back, enchanted by circumstance under his own witting eyes. The Moon Theater card shone in his quills.

-Sing-

 _Next day (August 1_ _st_ _)…_

Buster grimaced under the newspaper headings. Inevitably, he should've seen it coming. Not a one dared to speak up when his theater flipped belly-up. But here, now with a city salivating with a lust for the arts, it was only a matter of time before another show decided to step up.

After meeting with part of his troop (Ash had called in due to work; Mike had a 'prior engagement'), Rosita had drawn his attention to a moving company literally across the street from the Knuckles 'n' Chuckles Ice Cream Parlor. To anyone else it simply looked like an ornate, bulbous black building, three-story building with workers milling about like a fantastical horde. But he saw the silver and gold paint being prepped. He saw the pedestrians stopping and looking at the forming obstacle. He saw several suave suited mammals directing things, barking orders, and trying to expedite work.

Buster groaned. Competition knocked literally on his doorstep, and tossed out the welcome mat.

As any patron and lover of the arts would wonder, he clambered to the scene. Warning signs abounded, but the actual proprietors of the theatre weren't available for frequently asked questions. As such, the New Moon Troop returned to their homes, partly curious, partly concerned.

It shocked him to his core that in two weeks he already had a competitor staring him in the face. Buster had once said that the stage was the battlefield, but this was ridiculous. To further worsen the problem, they hadn't quite decided on their next show yet.

 _Lets see…we have "The Picture of Dorian Greyhound"_ , _a sci-fi mystery dinner spectacular, or another concert…opera? I still got Pete on dial for that…_

This whirlwind aside, Ms. Crawley, unfortunately, brought another element of doom to his doorstep. She informed him, when he left for lunch today, that someone was waiting for him in his office. Curious, but not so much as to demand speed, he took his time in the race.

The animal was still there when he got back, patiently in the chair, waiting.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I was on the other side of town…couldn't get here in time, mister...?"

The visitor, a flamingo in a white, three-piece suit, said nothing. His eyes danced on everything in the office, looking, catching, fetching onto the awards, pictures, details. Buster thanked himself that he got everything cleaned since reconstruction.

"Sir? Is there something I can help you with?"

The flamingo focused on the most recent picture, the one of the New Moon Troop: Buster cutting the ribbon, Ash holding her guitar, Rosita and Norman waving, Johnny taking up most of the background, Eddie's arms folded with pride, Gunter fabulously posing, Nana surveying the ceremony…everyone smiles and rainbows, the ardor of a task finished and the joy of completing an art for the sake of art flowing over in black and white. Buster smiled at the picture, similar so much to the one of his dad. Dad would be so happy to see him now.

It was a full moment, which Buster finally got in his seat behind his desk, before the flamingo turned his eyes away.

"You seem very proud of yourself."

Buster beamed. "Yeah. We brought our A-game for that show. You would've liked it. Standing room only! Meena literally bring the house down!"

"We?" Only then, at that single syllable, did he look right at Buster, eyes-to-eyes. Cold grey iron met his cheery azure orbs.

"Yeah. This was a team effort. Everyone sang for themselves."

"Everyone?"

"Echo, sir?" Buster joked, trying to bring levity to the pokerfaced flamingo. His eyes didn't bend. "Well, yeah everyon-"

"Including _you_?"

That stopped the koala's kidding around instantly. The flamingo turned his eyes back up.

"Mister…uh…"

"My name is Donovan."

"Er…Donovan, then…there must be a reason you're here."

The flamingo nodded, eyes still focused on the picture.

"So, what is it? I'll be more than happy to help."

"I doubt that. Your help, besides, would be neither wanted nor appreciated." Donovan stood up, his long, lanky body gracefully stepping over to the window. San Francisco's summer winds breached through, warming the office. His electric fan tried vainly to calm everything.

"Sir, I don't know where you're from, but usually guests aren't this rude to their hosts."

"I'm from Tampa Bay, actually. We normally aren't rude to house guests, but we also don't do other things. Endangering the lives of your workers and stealing another business's water supply, rankles the old tail-feathers more than a frank assessment of a host."

At that, the room, despite the August warmth, turned sour and cold. Buster's levity leashed itself only just, but he kept his manners up.

"All's well that ends well. We had some mistakes along the way, but-"

" _Everyone_ in that photograph nearly took the dirt nap," Donovan coldly interrupted. "Everyone, according to my agents. Do you feel proud of _that_? Would you have been prouder if they died in the name of your show? Would you have been proud at their wakes, after the curtain fell, for oh, the show must go on."

"No one died! Only thing that died was my theater, and we rebuilt that."

"So you learned nothing. Water under a bridge or through a building, all luckily falling into place. " Donovan growled. A strange noise for a flamingo, but it came close to clinching baritone. "Those kids are talented. As an artist, I despise the waste of talent to such silly recklessness!"

"I wasn't going to let anything happen. We got the show running and everything turned out well."

"It turned out well in spite of you, Mr. Moon. You have no talent. You have none of my sympathies."

Buster's patience ran thin as string at this point. A finger pointed up. "So, what? You just came in here to call me out? Hey, pinky, I don't think you've been here long, but the papers have been doing that for a while now."

Donovan thrust a feather at the paper on his desk. "How fickle and forgetful those media darlings get! Hero. Mad Genius. Maestro of San Francisco. The Great Showman of central California. Rubbish!" His wing slapped the paper in the bin. "You should pay less attention to those window-washers and more to me and your contemporaries. You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Nope. A very ruffled flamingo, but otherwise-"

Donovan tut-tuted him, then handed him a magazine.

The magazine came from Florida, but it was a recognized, national magazine, _Gold and_ _Glamour_. On the cover was the flamingo, this time in a suit of dark green and hunched over an ornate piano. The cover read in bright yellow font: " _Donny-Jo Vinci: Greatest Pianist of Our Time?_ "

Buster felt shell-shocked. _Now_ he knew who this guy was.

"Toronto to Tampa, Baltimore to San Antonio, Chicago to Kansas City, Mr. Moon, and more. My track record is ironclad. You? What do you have? A one hit wonder? I've performed for the rich and the poor, the foreign and the homeward. You're just an amateur demolition expert. But, it is rude for us Southern birds to lead a little, so…let me make my point clear."

Donovan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a roll of tickets.

"I've commissioned for a theater to be built, Mr. Moon. I will hold my own show-you and your meager troop are invited to attend free of charge. We will have our first show soon. Check the papers, check the brochures we'll be passing. Heck, you can even ask your old stagehands. They seemed quite fond of working for me, since my checks don't _bounce_. Two weeks tops. Embrace your little theater, Mr. Moon, until then. When I'm done, they'll forget you and this little palace. Well, perhaps they'll remember what you've done."

Donovan tossed his tickets down, grabbed his hat, and began for the door. Before he exited, Buster still stewing, he turned back.

"Mr. Moon. I acknowledged that your troop is of some talent, but you misread me."

"Why's that? They're all great singers with a bright future ahead of them! They'll all be stars one day!"

"Oh, Mr. Moon...at the end of the day, _anyone_ can sing."

The door shut behind him, every chiding, cutting sentence wounding Buster's self-esteem further. A single card, embroidering the address of his new rival, shone bright in the fluorescent bulbs on his table. Ms. Crawley slowly waddled in, a coffee drink in her hand and somewhat oblivious to the commotion.

"Mr. Moon? Are you all right?"

He smiled weakly. Fake. Phony. Shaken. But he was there.

"No…not right now."

-Sing: End Chapter-


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners. References to "Sympathy for the Devil" by Guns and Roses, and "I Got Friends on the Other Side" from _The Princess and the Frog_ are featured. I do not own these.

Italics represent thought or past events. Depending on context.

Thank you, those that enjoy reading my work, those who follow and fav and review. I do appreciate your indulgence.

That said, do enjoy.

 _Flash In The Pan_

Chapter 2:

 _August 2_ _nd_ _:_

Meena felt overexposed.

As an elephant, she towered over most residents in San Francisco. Put a wig and sunglasses or business uniform of any regular citizen and they could pass incognito, but someone her size...would just look like her with a wig and sunglasses or a business uniform. Despite what glee she garnered from singing- and she practiced when she could- other crucibles foisted themselves upon her.

Fans were the start.

The pulsing beats of Salaman' Tana lulled her on her bus ride home, but oblivious evaded her just yet. Whispers and sneaked glances darted at her footfalls. More than once she would be sitting on the bus, and as she looked up, some of the people would turn around suddenly. Before, the bus driver would only acknowledge her if she showed her card. Now, he made a point to tip his hat. The kids weren't that bad, although.

A small red panda, like those other ones at the auditions, tugged at her mother's blouse, pointing at her, beaming at her, recognizing her. The older red panda cringed in embarrassment, but nodded. Before Meena knew it, she was besieged by the mother, speaking in a thick Japanese accent, asking for an autograph on her school notebook. Then on her backpack.

Meena contradicted herself: Ears folded in while her mouth assured an affirmative. Black marker danced to give her name, all while stammering under those beaming eyes.

 _At least she's happy._ She countered her discomfort as the mother and child returned to their seats.

The feeling was foreign from this side. Meena basked in hero-worship before: Her grandpa, grandma, and mom all fell into that category, showered with the unconditional love and pride that family entails. But random kids naming you their hero embarrassed her a bit, and she wasn't exactly sure what to say. Parents tended to browbeat her into photographs, though at first, she didn't mind. It took some stepping up from the others to remind her that the confidence to sing also permitted her the confidence to say _no_.

Being given permission doesn't mean one will do it.

It interfered with her practice time, unfortunately: She felt stretched like a pancake in each direction. She still returned to her family daily, but she couldn't remain in obscurity. She found sometimes the most peculiar places to practice, but it shut off when she accidentally drew an audience. The construction workers on Main Street almost broke a building two days ago when she merely sang a few bars in practice, near the rubble on her break. She, thankfully, didn't need to practice as often at home, but...

The limelight burned her a bit.

"Excuse me."

Another parent, this time a hippo, breached the tones of her pop songs. The headphones came off as she saw a gaggle of kids behind the woman. She sighed internally, but otherwise gave her inscription several times more.

She didn't mind. She didn't.

They were minor complaints, she reminded herself. Nothing really, in the long run. She looked forward to the next show, but the publicity, as a slight side of irony, actually slowed things down. Mr. Moon had seemed distressed this morning, though as to the what, she wasn't sure. She had been able to attend their creative get-together by virtue of being literally let off of work (another side effect of her novel fame-apparently the little vendor she worked at boomed in business when it she started working). The ideas flurried from those in attendance, but other things did pop up. Adding people to the show seemed to be Mr. Moon's primary concern, but he communicated the need for branching into new shows.

 _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound...I haven't read that one before..._

He had asked Meena to familiar herself with the script, and suggest others if needed. In the meantime, Mr. Moon had busied himself with additional recruitment.

The bus stopped at her home. People pulled out from the bus and littered the sidewalks, giving Meena her space out. The concerns cropping up faded, and the security of home replaced it. All wanted to return to that peaceable security, despite it still being early evening. A bulging mainbox greeted her, rife with letters from the other side of fame. That the box had been completely empty the morning had not escaped her.

She lugged the bulging pile under arm and could hear her family in the house. Though neither side actually said anything, Meena knew that Mom kept some of the attention off if it became a little too overbearing. The day after the concert she had warned the reporters off by brandishing her spatula. When that wasn't available, Grandpa could shame them out with just unbridled charisma. They weren't born yesterday; They could smell the sleazes from a mile away.

She sighed openly now: The idea of agents and companies and big business, all of that never once entered her mind when she sang. She just _sang_ , and she loved doing it. She sang for her family, and a select few, and that had been enough. Grandpa's pushing opened the floodgates, and now everyone told her what her family had known for so long. That also meant that she had a very tantalizing skill, and businessmen coveted that.

The idea of being a singer, as a dayjob, had been noticeably absent. Passion never mixed with future career aspirations before. Now, the expectations lumbered to her doorstep, demanding a choice, or shaming her indecision.

She folded her ears: What was more embarrassing? Not wanting to be some enormous star, or not honestly having a clue what to do?

"Mom! Grampa! Gramma! I'm home!"

"Meena, sweetie!" Grandma bellowed out from her spot on the couch: Both her and Grandpa watched the news, "How was your day?"

"Fine."

"Oh...did you get asked for an autograph again?"

"...No."

"Did you?"

"...yes."

"Meena, people gonna look differently at you now. A little autograph ain't no problem."

"Its nothing really..."

Grandpa turned to her from his program, "Meena, you on your way to being a superstar, but I know when something happens that don't always sit well. If you don't wanna sign on their magazines, tell 'em to buzz off! You do what you wanna, but don't be pushed around."

"Yes, Grampa..."

"So, when's your next show, anyway? That kooky Moon got something else stewing in his noggin?" Grandpa asked, turning back to the program. Apparently, something called 'a crooked wheel' had rolled throughout the shopping district, and had been set on fire.

"He says we'll have another show at the end of the month."

"Really?!" Grandpa turned back so fast his trunk flipped. "That's great! You gonna be singing in it?"

"Uh..."

"Of course she will, Dad," Meena's Mom interjected, "Mr. Moon wouldn't go through the trouble of helping Meena only to hold her back now. C'mere honey."

Meena and Mom embraced heartily, their bulk lost within each other as only a parent loving her child would be. That they did this everyday didn't reduce its effectiveness. Meena's love for fer family was as common and solid a fact as the sky being blue, or the sun rising in the east.

"Honey, you'll tell us what that show's about, right?"

Meena nodded the affirmative.

"Well, good...oh...you got some more calls from those lions out of Detroit."

"I don't want to move to Detroit, Mom."

 _I don't even know where I want to sing yet. I just want to sing._

"Well, honey, I'll let 'em know you've got your commitments with the Theater. Oh! I almost forgot, you had someone come in for you personally."

"Is it another talent agent?"

"I don't think so. Second-sharpest dressed fellow I've seen, though, after your grandpa." (The old elephant merely raised his cocoa with a triumphant "Still got it!", even though all parties could sense the flattery). "He wanted to hear your singing, but he didn't push any dotted lines."

"Oh? A fan?"

"Don't think so, Meena."

Confusion brewed, but she didn't have much time to dwell on it. Already Mom was conducting the family to the dining room.

"Meena, supper will be ready soon. Why don't you go see what this gentleman has to say? He's on the back patio, dear."

Her ears folded in slightly, but she obliged with a nod. She knew that if any of her troop mates were waiting, Mom would've simply told her. But as she didn't, _and_ she didn't throw them out, so...

She opened the door to the back: Sure enough, the guy waiting for her, a flamingo, was dressed to the nines in the most pressed suit she had ever seen. Just the threads looked like they would cost a couple weeks' pay for Meena. A dainty teacup rested in one feather, while the other wing grabbed a stylized cane.

Immediately, Meena felt some degree of unease at the dapper gent. He didn't turn to her, not immediately, most focused on his tea than her, but it was the contradiction: The immaculately-kept suit and the pinnacle of status, against his almost icy expressions. She stood there for a few seconds, mute and uncertain how to start. She awkwardly slid into a nearby chair, and waited.

He long had focused on her before he finished, but he said nothing until he drained the cup. Teacup mounted saucer, and he moved it away, before focusing wholly on her, the cold eyes boring into her own.

"Uh...hello?"

His eyes continued to bore into her. A feathered finger graced his beak, but returned to his cane.

"Uh...I'm Meena. Its nice to meet you, mister...uh?"

"Your mother makes outstanding tea," He dodged the introduction. "Haven't had something that well homemade in years. The problem with living on the road...you can't settle in one place for long. Even if you buy a house, your services beckon to elsewhere."

Meena wasn't exactly sure where he was going with his statement, so she listened.

"I must have her recipe. Could I bother you for that?"

"Sure, I mean...but...I think its a bit weird you came here for my Mom's recipe."

"You're a smart girl. You can figure out why I'm here."

 _Yes. I can_.

"Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a bird of wealth and taste," The flamingo stood up, dipping his tall, lanky form to her. "I am Donovan van der Josefsen, though perhaps you've heard my other name? Donny-Jo Vici?"

"Uh...I'm sorry, Mr. Josefson, but I'm not familiar with you."

He frowned instantly, but it faded back to his usual stoicism. "No, I suppose not. My name is more elevated in the South. Here, in sunny California...well, I suppose with all the bells and whistles, you don't notice as much beyond."

"Sorry sir."

"Don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong." He leaned back in his seat.

"I've heard you have a outstanding voice. What was it your mother said? The voice of angels. High praise. I would merely throw that in with a mother's pride and devotion...but the papers seem to love you. The _locals_ love you too. Everyone appears infatuated with you, like an inspirational icon."

"You're too...that's...uh..."

"And you're shy, too. Well. That's a surprise." He leaned his cane to the side, the tips of his wings dabbing each other, pitter-pattering a tune. "I'm getting interested. Can I ask for a few bars?"

"Uh...Mr. Josefson...I don't mind, but-"

He continued, despite her protests, "Are you familiar with _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_? I imagine that would sound divine... _but_...you do not feel...comfortable, here, now?"

"I still don't know who you are."

Again, a slight frown appeared on his beak, "I am the best piano player you will ever meet in your life, child. That is not a boast. That is fact. And in honesty, I really don't have to listen to you here. The Internet certainly recorded your single performance. I just wanted to hear it in person. See what I can expect. Maybe, even...offer you a spot?"

Again the discord, between what he said and how he was saying it, struck her. Not once, since he started talking, did his words betray emotion, yet at the same time his body screamed interest, passion, vitality, from the color of his feathers to the way his tips kept tapping, as if on a rhythmic scale.

"Spot, sir?"

"I'm opening a show myself, soon. A variety of talents will be there, under my employ. Given that anyone can identify with song, I could use a singer. You have a following, but you are still undiscovered now. A better teacher would straighten you and make you sharper. But I am not a fool enough to force you to join so soon. I can offer an...audition...and I can offer you a free seat for the show, to see, if...that's your thing." His wings danced a little more on his long legs, before settling. "But you're a smart girl, aren't you?"

Meena picked up on the undertones instantly: Discomfort ached into her immediately.

 _But...I'm a part of Mr. Moon's troop! With Rosita and Johnny and Ash and Gunter and Mike and Eddie and-_

"If it wasn't for that little theater your mother spoke so highly of, I suspect you'd remain obscure. So, perhaps you still have loyalty to them. But I should warn you, child. You are better than that lowly theater. My show will be the talk of California. If you are content to waste your talents surrounded by mediocrity, then that, ultimately is yours to bear. But I can make you so much more."

"Mr. Moon is great at his job, and we have Miss Noodleman, and the others-"

"Big fish in a small pond, then?" Donovan said. "Neither of them are paragons to follow, child."

"Huh?"

"Noodleman didn't start that theater. She was swayed, am I correct? The magnitude of your performance swayed her to your side. And Moon?" At the mere mention of his name, the emotion finally bolted out. Meena recognized it as unadulterated scorn. "If Moon was so great at his job...why did he almost get you killed?"

At that, any words of defiance fell by the wayside. Her ears folded at the fact, despite the loyalty, she did almost drown. If Johnny hadn't...

"Ah. I suspect you never told your family. Your secret's safe with me. Though you should know, Mr. Moon isn't the only show in town now."

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a card, designed like those occult tarot decks. He put it on the nearby veranda.

"Child. I apologize if I offended you. But, I've been exposed more so than not to the rigors of the job. If you change your mind, there's my work number." He pointed at the table. "Thank your mother for her hospitality, please."

His lanky form stood, and bowed slightly, before wandered back into the house. Inside Meena could hear Mr. Donovan speaking cordially to Mom, regaling in stoic politeness.

 _What should I...Mr. Moon...he'd never..._

Her ears folded instinctively at the unbridled uncertainty.

- _Sing_ -

 _August 2_ _nd_ _(later that day):_

If noise represented life and common practice, with the constant of noise formulating routine, then silence reminded oneself that they were culpable of their actions and that perhaps they were alive in their own way.

The gloomy, sterilized silence of her apartment weighed heavy on Ash, as she lied on her bed. The clock read it only 7:30 pm in its infrared letters, and she was far from tired, but activity didn't beckon to her. Her mind moved faster than her hands, yet the laptop screen turned blacked from inactivity an hour ago. Work was off the agenda today, as she lacked a gig, and she couldn't go back to the theater after being there for most of the day. That might hint she didn't have a life and shine a spotlight on her problems.

That left her traitorous mind: Not the noise of her ex-boyfriend in the other room, nor the jubilation of her peers in the theater, but the back and forth of her brain carrying an economy-sized tennis racket to bounce pleasurable and painful images through her head, and conspicuously flushing away the key.

There was no denying it: She was lonely.

There was also no denying that she missed Lance.

She futilely threw a pillow at the wall in frustration.

 _Am I that big of a damn-huagh!_

She could feel the hypocrisy clawing at her quills.

 _Come on, now, maybe he just made a mistake, its not like he did-_

 _But C'mon! If he cheated once, when's the next time he might…! You only caught him because you joined the competition in the-_

 _If you had stayed with him, perhaps he wouldn't have replaced you…_

 _I did it for us!_

The contentious battle, heart and head, didn't fade from her mind. Her heart split down the middle in fastidious frustration, remembering the silly good times and cushioning those nuisances she cleaned up behind him. Her mind, divorced from that passion and more in tune with pragmatic reality, pointed out the logistics of their relationship with bitchy precision. It almost sounded in her head like Rosita and Ash were arguing.

And Ash was _defending_ Lance.

She could feel a groan of anger.

 _You're far better off without that, that, (_ her memory supplied Gunter's thick 'dinkelsplat' in the background) _yes, dinkel…splat. You got some much ahead of you, and he was just keeping you down._

 _But he made me feel…so…so…good._

Ash constructed walls that East Berliners would have found envious, but Lance long dug under those walls. She met him in back in high school, and those early years had been so good. Her dream as a rocker started with Lance: every time she plucked a chord on her vibrant red axe, she recalled Lance on a subconscious level. He had been…better, back then. But even her heart couldn't deny that something had…faded. She loved him even to the break-up ( _Even now?_ ) but she couldn't help but wonder why he stagnated as they kept playing.

 _Did he ever appreciate you?_ Rosita's voice-as-her-conscience asked.

 _Yes! I'm sure of it!_ Her heart defended.

All the while, during this mental tug-of-war, her body writhed in a personal rebellion. Head and heart couldn't come to an agreement, and so bombarded each side, trying to find compromise and only scorching her emotional health in the response.

And of course, she remembered an offer of an unusual kind.

Earlier, when they were working on the new show ideas, a musical adaptation of _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ , Ms. Crawley had interrupted the proceedings as only she could. Her glass-eye bounced out and tripped Gunter up, leading to a sandbag being jostled and smacking Johnny. After all that confusion, the interruption was laid upon Ash, as apparently she had a caller.

Accompanied by more than a few snickers, but Ash took the call.

 _"Hello…uh…this is Ash?"_

 _"No, this is Heart. If you're looking for tickets, we're-"_

 _"Ah! Ash, Ash. That sounds like you. I'm Morty. You remember me, correct?"_

 _"How could I forget a guy that nearly gets flattened?"_

 _A bit of silence, but Ash could almost sense the nervous caution on the other side of the line. Ash wasn't familiar with it: Lance simply went out and said his piece, regardless of it being smart or not._

 _A few more seconds of pregnant silence, and Ash finally convened._

 _"Look, I normally got nothing against running up the phone bill, but I really gotta get back to practice, so…"_

 _"Can I ask you out?"_

 _Ash almost blanched at the forwardness, but as if sensing this, the voice on the other side backpedaled._

 _"Nonononono, I don't mean, that-that, that came out wrong, that came out wrong, that came out wrong. It sounded better in my…what I MEANT to ask is…would you mind accompanying me for a bit?"_

 _"That's the same thing."_

 _"No it isn't. I'm requesting your help, as you're a musician."_

 _"Help?"_

 _"Yes. I'll even pay for your meal. Its…my way of thanking you for saving my life. The party tends to start where I go."_

 _"Uh…" It was the damn way he was saying it, both wording it as if it were an amorous request but vehemently denying it in the next breath. "Ok."_

 _It wasn't like she had anything better to do tonight: That was her defense._

 _"Great! Meet me at the corner of Taft and North & 3_ _rd_ _, if you want. But you don't have to…go, if you…don't want to. I'll understand if you're busy. Uh…and it must be 8:02 pm…or…so."_

He guilt-tripped her. That's her story, anyway. Talking to him was like talking to an even weirder male form of Meena, but she was getting close to that time. She facepalmed, in that, yes, she gave him the Moon Theater card, but she didn't exactly expect a fan to call her back.

"I don't need this." Her voice echoed off her cleaned walls.

She looked back at her black screen, then traced her eyes to the nearby wastebin. Despite her attempts, she _did_ hit on one idea, and the words, at least flowed out nice. But she noticed a bit of a pattern in the failed attempts and the one decent attempt. The failed attempts branched out to a cornucopia of subjects, anything Ash was willing to test: She wrote about porcupines at the barbershop, family reunions that went horribly funny, wanting to be an astronaut and flunking the exams to get in, and even getting high and seeing the food talk to you.

The one that flowed almost naturally, sitting on top of the wastebin pile, sang about a girl getting back together with her cheating ex.

She let loose the four-letter words when all of that came to light. She even went as far as burning it on the stove…only to pull it back at the last _damn_ moment!

 _Why can't I -?_

She looked back at the clock. The red letters now read 7:44. She would need to go now if she was going to see this guy.

Eyes danced between the screen and the clock. A mental coin flip twisted in her head. Fate, she told herself, arranged for another strange encounter.

- _Sing-_ -

Ash had long formed an opinion, erstwhile unshakable, of this Morty character just in their first encounter. To say he was as far from Lance or any other porcupine she had meet would be an understatement, just by the tailoring of his clothes and the general spaced-out manner which he talked or carried himself. Lance would argue his ( _admitted_ ) genius whenever someone called him out, and would expect the world to revolve around him ( _Not that I minded/Yes you did!)_. Lance acted as she would expect normal animals to act.

Seeing Morty long before giving a shout, she felt her jaw drop a slight bit at the new porcupine standing under the streetlights.

It was him: His quills gave him away with his straight-laced styling, but she got a much better look at his eyes. His glasses were gone, reflecting a simple chestnut brown that twinkled instead of hid away. Gone, also, were the office cubicle nerd clothes, replaced this time by a slick cut suit of half-and-half pewter and sunset orange threads. His shy, almost halting mannerisms traded out with a leaping thrust of pizzazz that instantly took her mind to Gunter, flowing around the streetlight with an energy not evident in their brief encounter. He twirled a single blue cloth, annoying and interesting passersby, as he boasted without pause.

A complete 180 flip. She blinked multiple times to be sure: Though a blind hippo could see that suit, could that really be the same guy?

Ash neared, actually now catching his words and recognizing his voice. Projecting out instead of huddling inward, she caught him passing ornate brochures to willing, intrigued parties. She also noticed a python, holding a violin, but not bothering to play it.

"Please, please, if you all enjoy such wonders and delights, of trickery and feats not oft-seen in the mundane world, then lock the date in! On August 13th, when luck turns ill, magic returns to-" He stopped in the middle of his pitch, and instantly his body reacted fast than his mind did.

She saw his eyes widen, almost in surprise. Then they focused back down, shrinking yet softening. His arms flew high, another departure from his rather constrained body language from before. A bright, almost illuminating smile brimmed off his furry face, the genuine glee chipping her back in surprise.

"Ah! As I live and breathe! My savior does come!" He gave the most elaborate of bows, as if Ash were some princess and Morty were a knight. "And just in time!"

"Hey. You scaring the straights."

He blanched a slight bit, but recovered. "Ash. I am _not_ an element of fear, but an instrument of hilarity and mysticism!"

"You're also scaring me a bit."

"Oh. That's bad." Passive, earthen tones sliced a wedge, momentarily, into that dual-colored flamboyance. It was only temporary, as Morty quickly recovered again. "Well, you are here, so I thank you. But, don't mind me. My trade, as you see."

He waltzed around slightly, a model prima donna in the skin of a nerd on that street corner. He turned with finesse to capture eyes and attention. Ash had no doubt he was catching something: Whether it was disgust or unease she sat on the fence about.

"I was busy, but I could spare a minute," A big lie, but he didn't need to know that. "What's up?"

"I was…wanting some musical accompaniment. For here?" He gestured widely.

"What?"

His fingers rubbed his lips at her almost bug-eyed response. "Look, I'm not quite skilled at musical instruments, and Jonesy's being…unhelpful. A little music goes a long way, and you have that sweet looking guitar and-"

"No, no, but what exactly are you doing? Other than scaring everyone with that suit."

"It's a good suit."

"It's melting my brain," Ash admitted. Grey damn sure didn't go with orange.

Morty sighed. Hands bolted into a pocket, and some exquisite cards folded and shuffled in his hands. Eyes trailed to his left, across the road. He shuffled the cards almost absentmindedly, a tool to harness his thoughts. Ash just continued to stare back at him, avoiding the brain-melting suit he was wearing.

"I have a show starting next week. It'll be the first performance, and my boss has been pushing hard to start fast. Something about, crushing any rival or whatever…I didn't catch the rest. Since I'm a part of it, he wants to promote out the tubes on this. Hence, why I'm standing here, passing out these. Some music might…ease it...and its a good suit..."

"And what exactly are you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Some of his swagger came back, showing off the garish suit. Timidity eclipsed bravado in his power walk.

"'Cure for Blindness' would be my first guess."

"I'm a lot of things: Illusionist, trickster, magician, escape artist, hypnotist, and fortune teller, to name a few. They tend to get, lumped in together."

"That's crap." Ash grimaced. She came out for this.

"It isn't!" He gave a mock affronted stance. "I can prove it…I've got a deck right here? How 'bout I read your fortune-"

A sudden growling eclipsed both their thoughts. Ash realized that she had forgotten to get something to eat, with the leanness of pay and the sterility of her songwriting to blame.

"…right after I get you a meal? I can always come to this."

Immediately, instinct provided a rebuttal to his offer, founded on so many excuses and pivots: No, she was all right, she didn't know him, she _missed Lance_ …but his hand remained offered out, even as he bid his python friend a good night. His eyes offered something old and fondly remembered, something she remembered from Lance, but…

" _Fine_ , but only 'cause you're paying."

Both his arms pumped the air, as if Morty had just won a contest of golden proportions. "Well then, let me…"

"You know those cards are crap, right?"

"Maybe. Kids believe in Santa too, but I haven't the heart to tell kids that's crap either. Why don't we see?"

The corner of Taft and North & 3rd played host to a little chic diner, often frequented by beatniks, emo-emus and college students from the University of California, San Francisco. It wasn't far from Meena's job, but it had a much different flair to it. Again, she saw herself and Lance here, as they had been there before.

A small grin appeared on his face. "You are familiar with the Arcana Tarot? Old magic in these cards-"

"Hold up."

He stopped mid-shuffle, curiosity glancing between them both.

"What's up with you? Last time I saw you, you were a full-blown square, but now you're bouncing around."

"Tell me what's up with you, and I'll tell you my mystery," He said simply. Despite his genteel nature, hard sharpness clipped from his mouth, as if daring her to take the bait. She didn't, reaching for a menu to order.

"I'm sorry," He quickly intervened.

"Its all right. We barely know each other."

"Well, what a way to break the ice."

The cards shuffled around his body in deliberate showmanship. Morty pushed himself to show off, never once shifting his attention from her, yet making his efforts appear absolutely easy. Humming to keep a beat as she ordered (She decided to order light. Best not take too much advantage of his charity).

"The cards, the cards, the cards will tell…the past, the present, and the future as well," All of the cards, effortlessly, found their way back into his hands, rolling, dancing, pirouetting, paper ballerinas charging her attention, as he hummed and spoke, "The cards, the cards…just take _four_ …take a little trip, into your future with me."

The entire stack laid face down, waiting for her. Pretending to be more interested in the beatniks on the other side of the room, she lazily grabbed three clumped together.

"Well, lets look at your past first, Ash," A ghost of a smirk danced on his lips. How far into this magician thing he was, she didn't know, but at the moment she couldn't believe this guy was also that timid fellow she saved.

A card flipped up. A porcupine was crying in her bed, wreathed in pajamas. Nine swords hung on the wall, and the card itself was inverted. Ash's attention immediately gravitated to it, as the porcupine almost looked like-

"You've seen a lot of pain, haven't you?" His words, almost hypnotic, danced out. "Though you are full of vitality and strong bodied, you have pains, up here, right?" He tapped on his head, eyes never leaving hers. "You've taken significant pain, pain you yourself caused. The right decision or the wrong decision? You sleep in your bed wondering if the root of your pain was for the better, or a grave mistake."

She looked at the card, and back at him. How did he gather-

 _You're a celebrity around here, Ash. Buster mentioned you broke up at the concert! Of course he'd know, the hack._

The second card flipped. Again, two images of porcupines stood together, one in a dress, and another in a shirt and jeans. They both held a massive coin, a big as themselves, as they sat, writing on some sheet. A third coin was behind them, finished and ready for the fruits of their labors. It, like the other, was inverted. Both those porcupine's looked so damn-

"Ah. Being held back, but not by something so physical. You want to work, but something is making you dillydally. You have a preoccupation with something that is, I'm assuming, reining in those artistic aims. Given the pain you've suffered, as indicated by the past, I'm guessing the root of your pain is blocking your future. That is you, now. Shallow in production, but determined."

 _I'm not shallow…I'm just going through a rough patch…_

He put both hands on the last two, again eyes never breaking contact, boring into her mind. "Normally, there is but a third card, one representing the future, but…something about you demands a fork in the road. This card," He pointed with his left hand, "represents what will continue without change. The other represents dramatic alteration of your course."

He flipped the one on the right first. Another cleverly put porcupine stood there, ridding a chariot of sphinxes, whipping the mythical creatures into action, as the toga-dressed figure roared in glee.

"Determination and expectation begets success. Inevitably, no matter how hard your current predicament is, you will conquer your demons, but you must first remove that barricade, whatever that is. If you cannot, if you are content, then…"

His hand flipped the one on the left now. A new porcupine, face covered in white cloth, but holding a massive scepter and a crown on his head. He sat on a massive clam, and the moon seemed to shine in the background of the card. It too was inverted.

"A gent that prefers to be in relationships, can see round corners, and is highly controlling. You may meet someone like this, but is that good? Does this perhaps mean you? Not a person of power, like the Emperor here, but a simple puppet on a stri-?"

He didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't, in fact. The whole affair, despite his charity, rankled her unease to an extent. She slapped the menu into his face, dusting him into surprise. She hurried out the door, despite the generosity, just to get away at the penetrating barbs, hitting closer and closer to home.

"Wh-what are you-?"

 _That's not true, that's not true, that's not true…_

She could see her past there, accompanying her all the way to her apartment. The strings confined her to the memories, and bade her to her phone, across the room

Lance's number flashed up. Awaiting eagerly.

- _Sing_ : End Chapter _-_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners.

Thank you again to those that enjoy this little work. Here's hoping you all enjoy this next telling.

 _Flash in the Pan:_

Chapter 3

 _August 3_ _rd_ :

Johnny heard the crash coming long before he entered the room, or before he ever actually heard the crash. He was young, but perceptive, and could see the strain on Mr. Moon's face well before he took that mountain of paperwork into the office. Everything else flowed like a cog in his head: He imagined Mr. Moon attempting to shut the door, his stature impelling him, and then attempting to set the files and scripts and notes and more on his table. A polite declination to Ms. Crawley's bugging eyes prologued the inevitable climb into his chair-easy when he wasn't burdened with paperwork bigger than himself. The thought to help had already primed him, but by then, the last step had clocked into motion. Mr. Moon leaned slightly, causing the base to tip, and then crumble right onto his person.

Johnny crossed the threshold before Mr. Moon could even utter the help to his secretary. Intuition sped him on.

"Ms. Cra-Oh, Johnny, a little-"

Johnny already started scraping the papers, away, getting them where he needed them. The piano pieces mixed with the screenplays, brochures and ideas intermingling with each other. One of the brochures seemed a little out of place, not much his style, but…

Buster grabbed the brochure out of his hand before he could quite get a look. "Thank you, Johnny, I couldn't have asked for better assistance myself."

"Mr. Moon, are you sure you need all of this?"

"Johnny…this is all for the show at the end of the month. I'll make use of everything here!"

Johnny did feel a compulsion to agree. A lot had changed in the weeks, but Buster seemed intent to put on a show bigger than the last one. Whether they could actually beat it out, in the eyes of their audience, remained to be seen, but Buster had a way of instilling the positive.

He just couldn't help but sense a dark cloud over the koala's head. As if something foreboding was pushing him harder. The last time that happened, everyone nearly drowned and the entire theater collapsed.

"Ms. Crawley! Where's my itinerary?"

"Here, Mr. Moon!"

A brief thanks and a request for coffee bled through the pleasantries. Johnny could have sworn he saw bloodshot spots in the koala's eyes. Maybe bags, but…

"Oh, Johnny. Did you need anything else?"

"Well, you wanted to speak to me about getting the auditions ready…"

"Oh, yes!" Again a jolt burst through the koala, as if being reminded launched him into another gear, perpendicular to what direction he advanced now. All the thoughts faded in that instant, and he ventured to a list. "That's today?! We might need another day, but-"

"Mr. Moon!"

"Oh, yes, Johnny?"

"Slow down a bit. You need to ease on the corners." A phrase of his Dad's. Buster was running himself ragged, not giving time for things to fall into place. He did mention a deadline, but to organize a show in a month's time…not to mention the nature of the show, which stretched a little outside their ability, at first.

 _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ required acting, something which none of the current members of the New Moon Troop really…possessed. When Nana Noodleman brought this up, Buster deftly introduced his focus: If he had singers, he would incorporate it as a musical. Boldness met with surprise, but Buster habitually pushed his chips hard. Whether they would bear fruit, however…

Johnny didn't really mind too heavily the acting approach, provided he could do his singing. As long as he had that, he was more than content. Eddie, having been hounding Buster in the past few days, had been trying to inform him that no, this was not a better idea, and there was no shame sticking to what he knew.

Diversity, in appearance, sliced through specialization. It had its benefits, a rally for everyone in the room, but also kept the diehard randoms of each little fiefdom away. Each member, despite the small number, knew what they could do. Buster coaxed the rest out by placing the possibilities, but even this might be a bit of a stretch.

Buster let some of his exhaustion out. Something had gotten to him in the past, but exactly what it was, he kept mum about it.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Johnny, I just...you guys put so much faith in me. I can only try to do the best I can on my end."

"Mr. Moon...if its not-"

An interruption: Ms. Crawley stole the attention again.

"Mr. Moon!"

"Yes, Ms. Crawley?"

"Show I open the doors? You seem to have some early birds outside."

"How many?!"

"Oh, just one."

"Well, that one can wait."

Ms. Crawley waddled out of the area, forgetting to leave the coffee she brought with her. Buster futilely reached, but gave up.

"Is there anything else, Johnny? Do you want to sit in on the auditions, or...?"

Johnny scratched at the jacket. Nervous tell and convenient way to tell time, but his father had laid backup plans when the situation called for it.

"Mr. Moon, if its all right with you...maybe we should do a second show, just in case...?"

Buster didn't seem to notice-attention frantically speeding up on the scripts he was collecting. "Oh, uh, what? A second show? I'm sure that's not a problem, but why...?"

"You asked me to have a backup song when we were rehearsing before. If this...doesn't turn out, it might help to have something on launch." He had already proposed the idea with Rosita during their little get-together a few days earlier, and she had been content to ecstatic on the idea. However, both had wondered why Buster neglected to mention anything on it.

Why he seemed to be veering from singing.

"Oh...Okay." Buster dragged out the word. Consternation and confusion stretched under the tongue. There was a moment of disguise, as if both parties, actor and manager, saw something that neither knew of the other, but was so far from expectation that they didn't click. Of that, Buster's distraction kept him away from his mind. "Well, if you want to try something, send me a blueprint. We'll keep it for the next show."

Johnny nodded the affirmative, but he could sense the friction. Not that it ended with Buster. Despite the good cheer and energy that seemed to reverberate through the theater halls and practice rooms, everyone had a slice of unease in them. For Johnny, it was mostly work, family, and preparing for school. Buster had his show. Rosita had her piglets. Gunter had...all right, Gunter either had the best damn pokerface this side of the bay area or enviably didn't feel any problem. On the other side, however...He had noticed the tempest underneath, even if he couldn't name it.

"Ms. Crawley!" Buster called out from the other room, "Have you been able to get in touch with Mike yet?"

"He said he couldn't come rehearse today..."

"That's the third day in a row!"

Mike had become a ghost since the concert, though, given how he damn near died to those three bears, Johnny wouldn't have been surprised (albeit horrified) if something had happened to him. However, it perplexed everyone still that Mike would return briefly, admit that he was cleaned, and then completely fail to show.

Johnny might've called it resting on his laurels, or joshing around. No one could deny his talent, but the lack of professionalism stung a bit.

Meena and Ash, on the other hand, reported to practice as normal, but between them, they had become more taciturn, as if something weighed on their shoulders. Meena switched between reading the script for the play and finding other songs to sing, but she would pocket away some scrap of paper each time Johnny caught her in a brief moment. Ash's unease greased into a fury today. He had said a hello in the morning, only for her to bolt to the practice room, ram on the strings, and then flurry amongst notes. Three times earlier he heard a clatter from the practice area. The one time he went and looked from his own piano practice, she had been picking up her cellphone, almost sheepishly.

 _What's gotten into everyone_?

Though everyone present could figure something was up, each had both their own issues, or felt perhaps that it wasn't their piece to intervene. Johnny had come close to opening the door to either of his troopmates, but...

He looked at his watch. Visiting hours would almost be upon him. It had, despite the unnatural mindsets of everyone, been a good day for him to stop.

"Mr. Moon. I'm gonna be heading out. You don't mind?"

Buster muttered under his breath, a bit oblivious to his burly pianist.

"Mr. Moon?"

"Oh, oh, yes, yes, see you tomorrow..."

Johnny's lip twisted down a slight bit. Buster had taken a similar storm surge to what he saw exhibited in his troopmates. Pencil darted and raced on paper, tracing an outline to some design or scenery. Remembering the last time he conjured blueprints for a stage in a blatant rush, Johnny diverted his attention for the moment.

"Mr. Moon, the auditions, remember? You don't have time for that."

"Oh. Thank you, Johnny." Buster clapped his attention to the situation, and then returned to the door. "Keep practicing! We'll see you tomorrow!"

He could feel a smile, traced on his face even as he got out the door.

That's when he noticed the deluge of people coming.

Buster's reputation yo-yoed with San Francisco: putting on subpar shows drenched apathy among the fickle, whereas holding an absurdly big carrot in the form of a $100,000 washed away quite a bit of the snobbery. Finding out that said $100,000 was a lie burned quite a few bridges as given through the news, and social media showed no mercy when the theater collapsed on him because of his desperate ambitions. "Just desserts" punched along as a very popular hashtag during that episode, along with the other hateful statements. Then the show cropped back up, showcased live on the news, and the same fans that reviled Buster for extending his reach and grasp tossed roses at his feet for the show.

Once again, having yet another trial by fire, the populace extended trust in Buster. Though not the queue that he expected, and certainly not the line for the auditions of the singing competition, there seemed a few serious fellows that wanted to try a show.

And they all recognized him.

Immediately on his exit, a chorus of youthful ladies let burst a shrill "JOHNNY!"

Embarrassment, not surprise, christened his face. Apparently he had a rather exclusive fan club after being 'discovered', though he was loathe to do much about it. While most people, professional, amateur and fans, admitted to enjoying the show, some people got their own demographics in where their fan base fell into. Johnny, fortunately or unfortunately, got the girls' eyes.

A lot of girls' eyes.

"All right, people, if you'd please line up, they'll get you ready in a tick."

Not different from a train conductor, really, as they listened to his beckoning easily enough. Helps to have a large frame and booming voice to attract attention, but he couldn't stay long if he wanted to make it to see his dad without causing another traffic accident.

However, even as everyone lined up, one fellow in particular stepped out of the line. Johnny caught it out of the corner of his eye, and had been to enough cinemas to know when someone was cutting line. At first, he simply deigned to ignore it.

The fans, however, weren't so keen.

"Hey! You cut in line!"

"Get to the back! Some of us have been waiting for an hour!"

Johnny's mind pleaded with himself not to turn around, knowing that he was going to be tardy, or even absent, if he turned and looked and inserted him into the affair with the auditioning populace. Morality won out, and like a chronic hero, he knew it was better to nip it at the bud.

His eye cast a quick glance off the shoulder.

A single porcupine, dressed like an office clerk, had been making a beeline for the front door. The whole office appearance completed the porcupine (give what few porcupines Johnny had personally met, the contrast was darn startling), right down to the pen protectors, the round glasses, and the neatly trimmed quill-line. His posture sucked the soul out of his existence, robotic and solemn. In his arms looked to be a take-home lunch, like from a diner. The office-worker porcupine stopped, however, as a pair of auditioning players stopped him, a hoof on each shoulder. If they were equal size, Johnny would've tossed a prayer over his shoulder and bolted, but criminal upbringing gave him instinct to trouble. That the two players were much larger (an alligator and a bull), burned off the warning signals. That they both seemed more keen to converse with brute force rather than placating words sent said warning signals into overdrive.

And the porcupine wasn't helping matters. He gave an almost dead expression to the two, registering them as if they were ants. No one else seemed intent on stepping in, instead bringing out their cellphones to record a potential viral scoop.

"Line? Doesn't apply to me."

Johnny almost cringed at the deadpan delivery. Did he need a shovel to dig the hole?

"Hey! Maybe you don't care about the Moon Theater, but the rest of us do! You think you're better than us?"

"If I was auditioning, maybe, ma'am. But I am simply going inside. So I don't care if I'm better than you or not."

Johnny had gotten maybe two more steps before that lazy, arrogant sentence lolled out of the office worker. A huge palm slapped itself on the face, as he already predicted the rather roused response.

"Oh! That's damn good! So full of himself that he doesn't think he _needs_ to audition!" The bull bellowed. His words infected the crowd. As Buster had potentially ignored the crowd, they grew impatient. To have someone so blatantly and slovenly walk through spat upon their pride, he guessed.

"Again. I am not auditioning. Plays…aren't my thing. So no, I wouldn't need to audition."

 _Maybe I can get to the truck before this breaks out…_

"Look four-eyes. Competition's tough around here! Folks wanna be a star! You think you're so good that you're already some high-and-mighty star in the sky?!"

 _Yeah, but if this breaks down…Mr. Moon might not be able to do anything about…it._

"I _have_ a show. I can show you my star, if it pleases you. But I'm not here for that."

 _Oh, bugger, would you just shut up you wanker!_

"Oh? What are ya, then? Health inspector?" The bull, in desperate need of a health inspector himself, chided.

"I'm here to see Ash. I missed her last night and-"

And in that moment Johnny lost control.

A mob of dissatisfied or satisfied people can create some rather powerful energy, as any performer might note. A hot crowd can elevate an otherwise mediocre performance on stage, simply by the blunt force of their unconditional love. A raucous, vicious crowd can eliminate any hope of prolonging the encore just by irrational disdain lapped up by vindictive news outlets. A dead crowd can suck the life out of the most stellar performance, squashing any future deals with the crushing chirping of crickets. Johnny had borne witness to the best of crowds during the concert, wildly amplifying everything they did. But he had yet to truly see the furor of a crowd.

Fans could be irrational in their hero worship, and by proxy might do for their idols what the idols is more than capable of handling on their own. As such, placating them like a diva might be the best solution, lest emotion gets it all out of control.

Everyone that saw the concert knew of Ash's past. That she had a terrible break-up with a cheating porcupine and she set herself free from sorrow through a song of her own creation. As for the particulars of the boyfriend, such as name and general description, only the closest of the New Moon Troop actually knew.

The fans knew he was simply a male porcupine that had been close to Ash and cheated on her. Something more fitting for the cops to doodle.

Johnny saw everyone's minds synchronize, looking among each other as the office worker ( _clearly_ not Lance) muttered other particulars. How he treated her to dinner, and she ran out on him when he was trying to talk to her, and how she forgot her dinner, and so he brought it back.

They didn't hear most of that, selectively hearing the bits that confirmed their own attributions, and then made their own basis.

"So, it's you." The alligator said. The shrill indignation had curved off into a cold edge. Johnny had heard that from his Dad more than once. His Dad often pummeled some bugger when that happened.

"Yes, its I, a magnificent soul, and someone trying to do good."

"Haven't you done enough, cheater?"

"Cheater? Ma'am, why would I-"

"Listen here you!" A sudden eclipse broke through the crowd, and a mammoth-sized tiger waded through the crowd, towering over the dull-eyed porcupine. If they ever did a horror play, this guy would get in. He towered even over Johnny and Meena. "Ash is a good kid. You keep your distance or else! We don't need any more broken hearts! Or how 'bout I break them wanderin' fingers?"

"What are you going on about?" The office worker looked straight at the imposing behemoth. "I just came to see Ash. What's the big deal?"

"Cool it cool it cool it cool it!"

Not in the least bit keen to clean a brown stain off the concrete, Johnny immediately intervened, cursing inwardly at the lost chance to visit his dad. Several times he wished to the Almighty that he would just stop prodding the situation, but bugger it all, he couldn't shut up and couldn't be cowed. As such, Johnny's hulking frame interceded between the two, and he saw them soften just a bit.

"Look! Look! Everyone's getting a little on edge. It's hot, but let's get cooler heads and that junk. The auditions will be starting soon. They are not for _Jailhouse Rock!_ Please, everyone calm down."

The thuggish tiger grimaced, but he nodded, perhaps out of Johnny's gravitas. The mob, placated by his pandering, mumbled their agreement, but still pierced daggers at the office worker.

"Sir…I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Why?" The office worker dully asked.

Johnny pointed to the tiger. The tiger, getting the hint, cracked his knuckles. For the first time, a sense of legitimate emotion-anger, of course- burst through the porcupine's expression.

"I didn't do anything _wrong!_ I just wanted to see Ash! Tell her I'm sorry!"

"Cheaters don't prosper, mate. Sorry ain't gonna cut it."

Johnny rounded on the tiger, "Not. Helping."

"What, so I've done dirty things! Why do you even care?! Who the heck are you to corner and judge me? How would you even know?"

The calm slipped quickly at the porcupine's understandable outrage. Johnny, the only one there that knew the whole story, couldn't get a word in because of the rather good-intentioned antics of the crowd.

"Please, sir. I'm _trying_ to help. You really wanna throw down now?"

"But I just want to give this back to Ash!"

"Someone need me?"

Ash's sultry sweet voice cut the curtains on this storm. Everyone turned as Ash stood at the door, a look of sheer confusion and bewilderment on her face. Eyes darted to everyone, to Johnny in the middle, to the fans on the left, and to the office worker on the right. Heat bore down on it all, the sweet cool Pacific winds evaporating in the moment of hostility. Silence for the moment, as everyone waited for the next move.

The office worker moved first, his eyes quietly fixing on her.

"Ash! Thank goodness! I'm sorry about last night, but I wanted to see you again and-"

The mic dropped instantly.

Emotion- protectiveness of a delusional sort- burst forth in a moment. As the office worker, who apparently _knew_ Ash, walked forward, ignoring everything that nearly happened up to this point, the tiger lunged. A piston of a punch jumped out past Johnny, brushing bulk past bulk, and two strikes hit the other porcupine before he could finish his thought. The second punch hit the back of his head, causing him to fall. Johnny heard glass crack, as the round sheens fell off from the force of the punch, clattering on the floor, and crushed under the tiger's heel. The same heel reared up and swiftly kicked the office worker in the side, bowling him over like a log into the theater wall.

Johnny saw all this in a single fluid sequence, all under 10 seconds. The young gorilla grappled the bigger tiger by the full nelson, but he recognized the problem instantly. Johnny was but one gorilla.

The office worker slid down the theater's brick wall, like those old cartoons. The box he carried had plummeted to the sidewalk, spilling out its delicious contents. Greenery and fuchsia of a salad, and deviled eggs and egg rolls splattered, staining the ground. A deck of cards, strangely, fell out as well, with a single one marking a red, horned figure flipping face up.

The mob started to move.

 _Can't let go. Can't let go. Can't let go._

"Ah! As I live and breathe! Damn!" The office worker shouted out. For a moment he lied there, his date with concrete a brutal tranquilizer. "Ash, if you wanna measure unruly fans…you should try the ones that wanna stab you because you don't return their phone calls. Ah!"

His movement was slow. Ash was already on it, pulling out her phone and dialing the magic three digits for emergency help. Not the best move towards your fans but…

"Someone please tell me…what is going on!?"

-Sing-

Ash heard that slicing voice. All of them did. The voice of authority, across all the chaos, cut like a surgeon's knife. Clicking shoes and a stamping cane cut the tension in half, relieving it with expect distraction but coalescing it all into a single fold.

A flamingo dressed in an expensive suit of cerulean drabbling walked into the stormy setting, cane tapping impatience and hat removed from bright pink crown. His face remained completely stone, but his entire body shook with palpable rage, reigned in and contained, but just barely. When he arrived, from a clearly expensive limo, she couldn't pick out. For all she could guess, she had been in line for the auditions, but the flamingo seemed far too well-off to be a part of the group.

Despite his question, the flamingo ignored everyone in the open, setting his eyes on the two porcupines. Ash was whispering to the office worker. The office worker, meanwhile, was heaving his breaths.

The flamingo sighed. Pinched the bridge of his beak, but turned back to Johnny, pointing at his office worker.

"Who. Did. This?"

No one stepped forward. For the completely neutral tone of voice, venom befitting a viper curled just under the interrogation.

"No one? Sly Cooper and the Tooth Fairy then? Hope you dullards like prison food. Or maybe you, young sir, can explain what happened?"

His cane pointed straight at Johnny's heart. Rage shook tremors in his pink feathers.

"Sir?"

"Who _bounced_ my star attraction on the pavement like a _basketball_!? You?"

"No no no no!"

"Did you?!"

"No! I didn't!"

"Then who?"

Johnny kept his mouth shut. Despite the obviousness of the culprit that he was holding back, Johnny didn't say the truth. Ash's lips parted to spare Johnny of a criminal surge.

"Well, I guess the apple doesn't fall far, does it?" The flamingo sneered. "Moon knows how to pick his punks."

Her opinion deteriorated instantly with those slashing words, despite him stopping all the commotion. During the whole blasting, in spite of the complete rage that he bore, the flamingo never once raised his voice. He turned from Johnny, from the mob, from the tiger that "bounced his star attraction like a basketball", and knelt down by Morty.

"You love playing with Death and the Devil, don't you, Morty?"

"Ah…sorry…boss. Hard to breathe."

"Flip on your back."

As they spoke, one arrival after another happened. Buster, having heard Morty crash into the wall, had come out, surveyed everything with a look of chaotic confusion, and gestured to Johnny as to how all this occurred. Then the cops came, having been called by Ash, and then the auditioning players dispersed from the chaotic scene, shouting 'cheater' at the prone Morty. Lastly, the ambulance rolled in, hurrying around the trio of flamingo and porcupines.

Ash meanwhile was trying to figure out how the hell all this happened. She just stepped outside to get some fresh air and maybe a coffee and already everything went pear shaped. Why had Morty shown up after what happened last night? Why had he gotten into a fight, and how?

"Nothing's broken, but I'm no doctor," The flamingo spoke. Compassion vanished from his dulcet tones, despite the rage he felt. "Take the day off tomorrow. Go with the ambulance. I'll fund you."

"I just…wanted…to get her that dinner." Morty's breaths heaved out. He sat up now, but his brow bled slightly.

"Her?"

Morty pointed to Ash, jerking a thumb. Venom and ice mingled to fit the flamingo's tempestuous glare. Morty, seeing this, reach a hand out, shaking his head, but the flamingo shifted it off.

"You? Who are you?"

"Uh…Ash?" She normally could toss volleys of snark to bounce back most threats, but the completely iron gaze he leveled at her tripped her scripted diatribes.

"Ash," He harrumphed. "My star came here to see you, and he got smashed. What do you propose I do to the one responsible for him being here in the first place?"

The flamingo twisted his neck, popping bones in barely concealed agitation. Morty, despite the heavy breathing, immediately blanched.

"Boss! It's not her fault."

"What about the ones before her? _Those_ wounds not their fault?"

"Hey!" Ash gathered her nerve. "He came by his own. I can't help what happened but, he's just banged up."

The flamingo's rage made him immune to hearing her conversation. He looked over her shoulder. "Moon. Why am I not surprised? You can't even hold a damn audition without getting someone in the hospital!"

"Who asked you to be here?"

"That's my star attraction! My investment."

Buster's face worn into frustration with his new adversary. Ignoring Ash completely, he towered over Buster. Buster gave as well as he got, but they both eventually went inside, rather than air out the problems in public. Johnny, guilty at how such a good day spilled into fury, left a bit dejected, waving at Ash before departing for his truck. That left Ash with Morty and the ambulances.

"My glasses got crushed again," He muttered.

Ash looked over, seeing the smashed frames from earlier. "I can get you another pair."

"I got contacts back with my equipment. I'll be fine." He heaved out another breath.

Looking at him now, the two sides of Morty seemed to almost blend together. She had seen him both as this nerdy office worker, and again as the flamboyant showman from the night before. The suit demanded his identity as the placating, peaceable office worker, but with the glasses removed, she got a good look at his face. Slyness mixed with passivity, his eyes jocular while his quills called for a curfew. His clothes pressed and starched for the orderly 9-to-5, but his hands suggesting subterfuge. Two faces trying to vie for the right stage, she couldn't tell exactly which Morty was real and which was the poser.

"Sorry about your food. I didn't know your fans were crazy."

"Yeah. Didn't see that...coming."

"Oh? Stalkers then?"

"Everyone thinks you are."

Morty sighed. A hand remained locked right at his side, as if the ribs were busted.

"I'm not. You just ran out last night for some reason. I'm not that terrifying."

Ash looked away from his probing eyes. She convinced herself last night those cards were crap anyway. She didn't tell anyone about the 7 digits stamped over and over in her head, right on her phone right now. How she was beginning to obsess over something suggested by crappy colored cards. She stepped back to allow the EMTs to work their magic, checking everything. He didn't turn his eyes from her.

"What are you afraid of? Tied by strings?"

"Shut up."

He frowned, but bit back. "Hey. I came to see how you're doing because I'm concerned, okay. Nothing else brought me here. You ran out because I struck too close to home, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I nearly get my back broken for it by your crazy fans. Base out of your tone, please."

Ash grimaced, but he was right.

"I'll call next time."

"No!" She shouted. The EMTs started to move away, prepping the stretcher. "Listen, I'm sorry all this happened, but…damn it. Look. I'll tell you a bit more, but…not right now, okay? I need a moment."

"Didn't you have several hundred moments in there? Waiting for your Emperor?"

"Will you stop with the card talk?"

"Part of the act."

"You're not on stage!"

He gave a lazy smirk. Accepting, but never once in danger of breaking the cords. He seemed fascinated. "No. And yet your presence literally got me here. Can I see you again? Tell me your songs?"

She felt a grin herself coming. Despite the heat, despite the chaos of the moment, despite the day fading and Buster undoubtedly having problems with the flamingo boss, and despite his general weirdness, she couldn't help that smile coming. It brimmed of fascination, much like him.

"Sure."

"On second thought…why don't you come to my show? And I'll see yours."

Her eyes widened. Uncertainty tripped up, knowing that his show, run by that bird-brained blowhard, would lead to a problem. He was getting rolled into the stretcher as all this came out.

"Not sure?" Morty said, swagger brewing.

"I'll see you before then."

"It's in the cards. Look! Get my cards! They'll tell you where you should go!"

Their budding conversation ended as the ambulance door shut. Ash looked at her feet, seeing those same ornate cards as before laying on the concrete, intermingled with the egg rolls and salad.

The Devil looked up at her, a horned porcupine carrying chains and winking at her.

Ash groaned at her frayed nerves and got back inside, auditory pummeled by the shouting match of the flamingo and Buster.

-Sing: End Chapter-


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners.

Thank you again to those that enjoy this little work. I hope you enjoy the next edition. A bit late, but still here.

 _Flash in the Pan_

Chapter 4

 _August 3_ _rd_ _, Moon Theater…_

Meena's nerves burst long before the shouting match started. As if a clairvoyant power flicked its finger in her direction, she could feel the fog of uncertainty loom and infect the pristine theater. At first, she had simply been rehearsing, the glass panes reverberating the sound as she practiced again Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". Between bars, she gathered her wits for the troublesome decision laid before her. That she was learning what she could of _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ couldn't push her mind from it in abstention. Instead, her massive hand brushed occasionally after a few bars, a few whole notes and quarter notes in tempestuous contemplation.

Mr. Josefson's card remained deep in her pocket, a pimple shrouded from attention, waiting to either be cleaned into oblivion or discovered and jeered upon. The occult design, again like a Tarot card, confused her, but she had looked at the number more than once in the past night. Mr. Josefson's words did ring true, as much as she wanted to avoid it, and even as she practiced her songs, new and old, his words bubbled back to the conscious surface.

 _"If Moon was so great at his job…why did he almost get you killed?"_

 _"Big fish in a small pond, eh?"_

 _"If you are content to waste your talents surrounded by mediocrity, then that ultimately is yours to bear."_

In spite of the monotone politeness and high praise Mr. Josefson showed her, his words stabbed in areas Meena neither liked, nor suffered well. Fame walked side by side with her, but it was a gilded stranger. The young elephant loved her fans, embraced them mentally despite her shyness alarming her away, but fame was like a new pair of shoes for her. It needed to be broken in.

Mr. Josefson viewed her as the best singer in that troop, or at least that was the tale he sold. That he was willing to meet with her personally, entertain her family, and not get booted out spoke about his own way with words. He implied that he was the main event, but as quickly as he praised Meena for her vocal skills, he dismissed her troop members. Maybe not individually, but as he raised her on a pedestal, he seemed likely to kick them down or ignore them entirely.

 _"If Moon was so great at his job…why did he almost get you killed?"_

Meena thanked the Lord that night that none of her family eavesdropped on that little nugget. Despite the public coverage of the destruction of the Moon Theatre, she wondered at first why her Mom, Grandpa, and Grandma said nothing about all of it. Her sorrow gushed at that time, her dream ripped from her trunk for the umpteenth time. She had been more upset about not being able to perform than nearly drowning, that night. If her family felt any misguided anger at Mr. Moon, anger buffeted by the near death of a loved one, caused by accidents that could've been prevented, they never overtly showed it. At least to her.

In truth, Meena had been more grateful that everyone survived unharmed, though not as they started. Miracles blocked any injuries to the troop members, and all were healthy enough to perform when the show began again, setback aside. Mr. Moon's sudden homelessness had been unpleasant, but that had reversed course as well, but Meena didn't hold a grudge against Mr. Moon for the accident…

 _"Why did he almost get you killed?_ "

In the very least, she looked up information about this new show so hyped by Mr. Josefson. That he already had the theater built as they spoke, a show scheduled, and a website to promote it astounded her, simply because the website had only existed since July 17th. Beyond that, Mr. Josefson kept his cards close to his chest. He promised the magically wonderment and illusions of "Mr. Mephisto", the strength bending of "Blanka the Frenzy", and his own myriad mastery on the ivory keys. If that was all, or if he simply had more but refused to say, Meena couldn't figure out. Instead, he promised a show for all ages, for all minds great and small, that the pauper, the prince, the priest and the plagiarist could stand in awe as equals. And that it would begin on next week, on the 11th.

How he could arrange all this in such short time? Meena scratched her noggin in perplexity, but she let the matter rest. He edged his chances, hyping a show so soon when the theater wasn't even finished construction. Meena had seen the theater being built from her part-time job; are construction workers toiling around the clock? Just to meet this deadline?

 _What exactly's this guy paying them?_

The card lurked still in her pocket.

She remembered the drowning. Meena swore she would lose some weight in the immediate aftermath (hastily forgotten in the cheer of the concert), but she didn't put that on Mr. Moon. Accidents happen, and everyone came out all right. Wasn't that enough?

The extra work prodded her, soothed her, and made her forget her burning lungs. The high octaves of Cohen's masterpiece assuaged the crushing phantom weight of the water that she helped- _helped!_ -plunder for his squid-powered presentation. The breath marks and rises eased the frantic motions of her trunk, seeking an air pocket, probing for a gulp to stay off the water.

No: With the bandaged torn, she could barely help but think about it. She was almost caught looking at Mr. Josefson's card earlier when Johnny came to check on them. His proposal of a second show, separate from _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ warmed her. The play itself focused on drama, and Meena had enough problems performing in front of a crowd. Sing in front of a crowd, she could do all day now. But act?

Honesty clapped on her shoulder too hard.

She was shaken again out of her trance when she heard the third clatter of the day. Meena sighed, aware that Ash had chucked her cellphone against the walls again, but hid her awareness as best she could.

Lance could be such a pain. Never giving that girl time alone. She would probably have to find Lance and teach him a thing or too.

She heard the door open. Meena pretended to keep practicing. Cohen's work would be part of what she did for the show, but she didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. She saw Ash stomp in the direction of the main entrance, probably packing it in. When she exited, Meena let out a breath, pondering Ash's mental flip, Lance's renewed vigor, Mike's invisibility from the theater, or Mr. Moon's inner workaholic resurfacing. It was brief, before her harmonious tones fell back to the sacred chord.

She liked her friends here. Buster with his optimism and skills at maximizing _everything_ ; Ms. Crawley, patient and loyal even when anyone else would've left; Gunter with his wild entrances and 'get-it-done' attitude; Rosita, doting on everyone yet never reflecting the weight of her family life; Johnny, polite despite the dark shadow behind him, selfless despite the criminal past; Ash, her complete Looking Glass opposite but stronger than she let on; Eddie, one-time protégé seeking fulfillment regardless of the key to success handed to him; even Mike, with talent and acerbic barbs in a full glass, had decent points hidden up his sleeves. They were all such good people…why should she leave?

 _""If you are content to waste your talents surrounded by mediocrity, then that ultimately is yours to bear."_

Mr. Josefson's neutral tones pierced the question easily enough, cutting her friendship-woven armor like paper.

 _But I like it here…_

Her practiced finale banged into interruption. A massive thump reverberated throughout the brick and mortar of the nascent theater. Curious, Meena looked around, but she remained alone in the practice rooms. Eddie hadn't arrived yet, so he couldn't be messing anything up…

She saw Buster running out of the corner of her eye. Frantic movements mingled with a mirrored confusion. She poked her head out of the practice rooms, reaching the stage. Diatribes and harsh language not fit for a church assaulted her elephantine ears.

"Who do you think you are?" Buster shouted back. Venom, completely alien to the koala, snaked into his diction. "You come outside my theater, insult my talents-"

"Me? You _injured my star!_ " the voice, equally alien and familiar, boomed through the theater. Meena recognized it and cringed. Recognized it for its diction, for its geographic history. Cringed, because the last time she heard it, it was calm, polite, and never this many decibels above normal.

Mr. Josefson towered over Buster Moon, the pink flamingo radiating anger at Buster. They stood right at the entryway, but Meena could see Buster distressed and a little ticked off himself.

"I didn't injure him!"

"You let him get injured! You've haven't the strength or the fortitude to do it yourself, but your crazed fans haven't that limitation! What, you pass your stars around like Oklahoma peace pipes?"

"Your star?"

"That porcupine that apparently wanted to do something chivalrous…that one's _mine_." Mr. Josefson pointed his feathered finger, dipping it disrespectfully on Mr. Moon's head. "Unlike you, I don't pick from the rank and file. I can't just replace that porcupine with a simple bottom-feeder that can be bribed with imaginary money!"

Buster grimaced, being so hounded. Meena shrank back, under no circumstance wanting to be involved in this storm.

"If you don't like my show, if you don't like my theater, then there's the door." Buster said, controlling his own agitation. Stress heaped on top of stress, and the latch almost came undone.

"I'll leave, don't worry. You can color the bricks gold with dust, but your luck will tear it down soon enough. I'd rather not be here for long. Who knows when one might _drown_ on expectation and never-fulfilled promises?"

"Hey!" Buster's restraint could only hold for so long against such blatant smugness. "Don't insult my theater!"

"Really? This is what matters to you?" Mr. Josefson raised his wings wide, curiosity clashing with the iron gaze. "These walls, these bricks, this carpet, these seats? That stage? And not the superior talent standing on it?" A vicious finger pointed where Meena stood. "You think the theater means more than the talent that performs on it?"

"We worked hard to get here. Without this, where would they perform? I offer a showcase of bright young stars. You just showed up when everything's sunshine and rainbows."

"Really? I've performed at _streetlights_ , Moon. You've _never_ performed. At. All. Those awards in your office? Superfluous. You simply sat and gave orders. What leader can give orders if he can't do it himself?"

Buster's frown deepened. Meena could sense that Mr. Josefson hit a sore spot indeed.

"Sir. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

There was no question in that.

"Fine, Moon. But my offer still stands, on all sides. Come to my show, and watch your superiors surpass you. I will personally buy a ticket to your show, and see how fast the rank and file flock to my stars. But until then…if _he_ ends up broken because of this…then I most certainly will respond with a hammer of the legal sort…"

The cane tapped the finality of his warning. Buster did not smile, but nodded.

"You'll see, Donny-Jo. Our show will blow yours out of the water."

"I hope not. You have to stop drowning yourself first."

Mr. Josefson clicked his heels, turned to exit, but as his feathers clasped on the door, Meena heard another warning slide under his breath.

"Keep that trash porcupine away from my star, Moon. My boy's been through enough from the fairer sex without some codependent guttersnipe hampering him. Unlike you, I actually give a damn about the health of my stars."

Buster finally lost his temper, reaching for the nearest object (an anthology of plays) and hurling it at the flamingo. Deftly, Mr. Josefson parried the book with his cane, tipping his hat in mockery, and walked out the door none the bruised.

Meena finally snapped out of her paralysis, and approached Buster.

"Are you ok?"

"You saw all that, didn't you?" Buster said. All the color of rage drained out of him, the source of prodding anger gone from his eyes. Stress and exhaustion browbeat him, consequences cogitated hobbled his shoulders, and adrenaline sapped him. He maintained a steady voice.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, kid."

"What happened?"

"That guy…one of his guys came to visit Ash for some reason, I don't know. Ms. Crawley!"

"Yes, Mr. Moon?" The dutiful secretary of the Moon Theater hailed from the second floor.

"Tea?" Buster offered. Meena nodded. "Pour us some tea, Ms. Crawley. I'll be up in a moment."

He didn't go up immediately, despite Meena's urgings. He plowed a hole in the stage from thought, figuring out the shift of his itinerary, at the blown-up confrontation. Palpable unease, anxiety, and a smidgeon of fury unlike Mr. Moon, so unlike him that it covered his face like a ghastly mask, burned off of him. He walked to and fro, nerves stretched in positions even the yoga-minded wouldn't dare, mowing a hole in the carpet.

"Mr. Moon?" Meena ushered up, trying to balm the grappling unease unearthed from his person.

"Oh, right, right."

"I've been looking at some of these songs for the beta show..."

The preamble of cheer, bolster by concerns distracting and legitimate, drew the koala gradually from the challenge of his viperous opponent. He forgot of Donovan van der Josefson, if but for some time, instead offering his managerial expertise in handling his star's concerns.

"Well, for you, I would think this song might work better..."

The verbal massage flowed in with green tea and cookies.

- _Sing_ -

 _August 7_ _th_ _,_

An informal declaration of war, unsaid by either side of show business, perforated from that singular clash. Although Donovan van der Josefson's star suffered the preemptive strike, his theater, not the Moon Theater, flourished in attention. His face appeared in the newspapers and on the evening news in San Francisco, as he plugged his show while keeping complete tabs on the content.

The news had been curious, and chomping at the bit for a new firecracker to light. A new player, entering the garden of entertainment so soon had caught everyone off guard. Having learned as much as they could from Buster Moon, the network shifted their attention to the self-proclaimed 'best pianist you'll ever meet', scrounging and sponging information from him when they could.

The members of the Moon Theater, having been brought up to speed after the fiery incident, could tell he played the news like the piano he so eloquently championed. While Buster hesitated in revealing what he knew, but hinted as so to hide that he lacked a plan, Donovan knew exactly what he had in mind, but told them (by marketing his own show) that they would see the wonders when they walked through the halls. While Buster defended and detailed the skills of his small but reliable troop, Donovan kept completely mum about the acts, teasing that it would ruin the surprise. They ate up his coquettish behavior, trying to find meaning to the vacuum he left behind. Anytime they seemed to lose interest, he immediately reeled them back in with past exploits. Even his reputation served as a building block. When someone challenged him as simply being a scavenger trying to claim a place now that fame had come, Donovan parried by attacking Buster's character and history. When the news caster admitted to the 'better to deal with the devil you know' defense, the flamingo thrust to the danger of keeping a known devil around in the first place.

Then he pointed to his luminous awards of the past, his own expertise at the piano and his attention to detail in gathering an exquisite show. What exactly did Buster know about performance, he had asked. Unlike Moon, Donovan talked of being a part of a show and overseeing a show. A politician's tongue rose out of him, as he gestured to the fact that he could better support the magnificence of his troop.

The flamingo achieved a goal that Buster hadn't anticipated: He got everyone talking and interested. Despite the speed and the approaching deadline of his show, the construction workers finished building the theater, with days to spare for formal practice and getting all the contraptions and equipment tended to. A complete flip from the violent rage he portrayed on the steps of the Moon Theater, Donovan personally and almost tirelessly mingled with the very rank and file he spoke ill of in front of Buster, courting their interest and their pocketbooks.

All the members of the Moon Theater had seen him about town in the past days: A flamingo in an expensive white suit was very hard to miss. Meena had seen him at Knuckles' n 'Chuckles, even, buttering up sellers and buyers. But the effect of this aggressive marketing served to put Buster on edge, and the other members a bit concerned. Combined this with the failed auditions that they had to reschedule, and they had been worn like Norman on a regular day. Even weirder, Donovan had approached _all_ of the performers, as each relayed, apparently trying to sway them to his banner. He pitched a good game, to them:

He apologized to Johnny for his rudeness at his job, and offered his services in legal connections as trade for his father. Even going so far as to offer 'community service', if possible. All Johnny had to do was audition.

He courted Rosita's attention through Norman, learning in a visit to Norman's job in sales about how overworked he was. Donovan offered to Norman a less taxing occupation, working in marketing and design for him, so he could spend more time with his family. Rosita could recognize the angle immediately, but had enough episodes with her overworked husband to understand how tempting that offer was.

He flattered Gunter's fashion sense, teasing that maybe he missed his calling in the fashionista franchise. He proposed a trade of sorts: Perform some shows for him, and he would get his contacts in Las Vegas to give Gunter the once over.

Meena's family actually hosted a second luncheon with the suave flamingo, this time with Meena attending. She had been startled with the ease of civility he exuded towards her mother and grandparents, the contrasting mask of utter fury he demonstrated to Buster at odds with the polite jests he traded with her grandpa. He pleaded with her mother for her tea recipe again, begging if he could introduce it to his mother in Tampa. He buttered up her family as if they were old friends, the cherry being his praise of Meena. He called her the third-best singer he ever heard in his travels, and recounted many of the cities he'd toured. Meena had turned her ears in, embarrassment and confusion prancing in her mind.

There were, however, two exceptions: Mike _still_ was absent, despite Buster's warning calls. The stress of Mike not being around weighed heavy on Buster, yet he couldn't get Mike to practice.

The other exception was Ash: Donovan never once crossed paths with the punk-rocker in those days. One might attribute it to not enough hours in the day, but it stands out when everyone else had a story but Ash.

Buster, fraught with the paperwork as it was, never relayed the message. As such, Ash inevitably ran into that "star attraction" in those days passing. Part of it came from the simplicity of her needing to get his cards back to him. At first, she wanted- _wanted_ them to be nothing more than quirky playing cards that nerds in comic book covens played in tournaments. But she recognized them from her own little reading in that chic diner.

She really didn't like how they all seemed to be porcupines.

Finding him, ironically, turned out to be harder than she thought. While they both had each others' work numbers, neither probably would've received it. Morty calling at the Moon Theater would've resulted in more fire, and Ash remembered the vitriol of that damn flamingo. As such, she kept those cards on her person, but otherwise kept about her usual routine.

One day passed as normal-fans, practice, the cheeky demonstrations of the "Blue World Assembly Hall", and the nagging struggles underneath all of it. Away from the crushing silence of her apartment, a notebook and her treasured guitar tucked under her arm, she wracked her brain in attempts to find something before her impoverished love life to write about.

At this rate, she was tempted to hire a male dancer just to distract her from the urge. It didn't quite eclipse her moral reasoning (as she could see the shame she might feel if that ever happened), but the frequency of her dialing at her TV, late at night, and finding some sitcom reflecting her own woes increased by the day. She even threw the proverbial Hail Mary in those creepy cards, and asked bluntly "What do I want?"

The Lovers flashed instantly upon the request.

Ash facepalmed at the trickery. It had to be a trick of celestial proportions. Right?

Her body and heart's wants combined to compromise her resolve. More than once, she found her feet leading her to that cafe, the one Lance and she practiced at the beginning. She grimaced at her body defying her freedom. As she plumbed the depths of her mind, rubbing the defibrillator of her lobes to find that single electric spark, she kept finding herself there, again and again, as the days past.

As if all roads lead back to that reminded, in a convoluted labyrinth, taunting her and mocking her.

She ran and dodged out of the way when the polar bear proprietor saw her. Recognized her. Called out to her. She pretended not to hear her.

Lance turned into a specter in these past days. She never saw him, except in her dreams and in her head. One might've expected him to come back to her (a guilty part of her mind, the darker part, suggested), being the insufferable mooch that he turned out to be when infatuation diluted. But the mind sometimes is a slave to the body, as she faintly recalled from some philosophical website. More than once, the phantom of his warm hand haunted her own. More than once, when she woke, she would roll over in her bed, expecting to drape an arm over her boyfriend's chest, feeling that comfort of familiarity and security and damn warmth there, under those cheap sheets. Instead her hand groped cold linens. Her eyes would widen, faintly wonder where he was, and then history would stampede back.

Her free hand flipped out her cellphone. She had actually called Lance's number the day before, but before the first ring even finished she closed the function. Thankfully, the call didn't go out, but she kicked herself for giving into temptation, the proof in the electronic log.

Accusations glaring at her, daring her to call herself free when she willingly wore the collar.

 _Damn it._

She put away her phone. For all the activity she garnered just focusing on her ex-boyfriend, the inverse applied with the defiled piece of paper. Notes of ideas, motifs, themes, and catchy phrases littered line by line on the white space, but binding them together into something coherent fell outside her ability. Unlike a procedural mathematical problem, she couldn't pound out the answer.

Attention to everything must be stated. Ash didn't notice, so digging into her psyche to find the next big song for her, that she forgot in the middle of it exactly where her feet were leading her. Peripheral vision faded from lack of vigilance, and her mind absently informed her that she was still loitering around that cafe.

What _her feet_ actually told her was that she was walking in the middle of a crosswalk without the proper sign.

Two things threw her out of her contemplation. A car-horn rumbling forward split her ears, trying to warn her, but groggy thought failed to motivate the body to move. The second was a swift hand grasping her wrist, and immediately pulling her back. Notebook fell into the street, jostled from the crevice under her arm, but she retained a death grip on her guitar, refusing to let that thing go. A second later she heard the notebook pummeled into scraps, weak and useless before the might of an automobile.

Her vision was obscured, face pressed into someone's front. The fabric felt voluminous and expensive, and she turned her head up after the honking horns, middle fingers, and slurring curses died out of hearing.

"Hello."

"Oh hi whatthedamnmother-!"

Just like magic, Morty popped back up again. Dressed not as the office worker but as the dual-colored dandy, he smiled down on her, bemused at his lips and concerned at his eyes.

"Are you okay? Ash?"

"Whoa. How the hell did you-"

"I'm a magician, remember? But one of many roles I keep. Are you sick?"

Her rather confused face answered him enough.

"You're like a furnace."

Ash realized exactly how they were positioned. In pulling her out of the street, Morty had turned her around and brought her into a close embrace, holding her wrist with one arm and her side with the other. The position was intimate, and Ash felt some heat burst onto her cheeks. She felt some of his warmth, along with a noticeable, labored breathing. The act of respiration troubled him, but his kind yet detached smile dissuaded any immediate concerns. She thought she heard a click and saw a flash, but she guessed that being the lights for the crosswalk.

She forcefully plucked herself from his grip, subconsciously missing his touch. Morty simply dusted off his new suit-this of resplendent orange and royal blue-and kept the cheer associated with the magician part of him.

"My, you are simply amazing. Here I am advertising my work down the street, and you nearly suffer my fate. Flattened like a pancake, those were your words?"

The switching of positions, from savior to saved, wasn't lost on Ash. A newer blush, mixed with embarrassment in the concoction, flared to her cheeks, but she toughened it down immediately.

"All right, all right. You got my thanks, for-"

"Preventing you from being reduced to roadkill?"

" _All right._ Thanks." Ash shut down the friendly reversal. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the deck of cards, shoving it at him. "You forgot these."

"Ah! You kept them. I was afraid you'd toss them. Given...you know..."

"Take them back."

Morty's face shifted to perplexity. "Really?"

"Yes. Take them back."

He pretended to think, histrionically rubbing his chin in thought. In his own moment of fake contemplation, she got another good look. The pewter and orange suit he wore before, hideous as it had been, offended her eyes as much as he loved it. The blue and orange however, she actually had to admit looked decent on him. His quills had been combed back, still a hint of the straight-laced nature, but fashioned to be a slight bit more eye-catching.

"Actually, I have a better idea."

"Damn it, look, these things are creeping me out. Take them."

His face almost seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. "Ash...did you ever...consider coming to the show?"

"Why? Your boss doesn't seem to like my boss."

"Well..." he motioned for her to follow. Having no other pressing place to go, she obliged. "My boss keeps a loose string on me. He's overly concerned."

"He's chewed out my boss in his house."

Morty sighed. There was an air of familiarity in it, seasoned with resignation, but no surprise. "To be fair, he did just watch me fold like a house of cards."

"If he does that again-"

"Do what you want, but understand, Donny is protective of those in his employ. A regular mother hen, you might say."

"He stepped over a line."

"Never denied that. He is constantly holding himself back, Ash. When he _does_ let go, its quite the fireworks. Either that or play his piano."

They walked in a degree of unusual silence, passing by the summer-tinted shops and vendors. Ash for a moment wondered why the heck she was following this first-rate weirdo, seemingly himself in a suit that would only fit in at conventions, Halloween balls, and the circus, but he never stepped forward. Instead, he kept himself shoulder to shoulder, occasionally casting a glance at her. She did the same, catching his chestnut eyes when they weren't shrouded by those dorky glasses. They were kinda cute...

She swallowed the thought and chalked its existence to her past boyfriend issues.

"I imagine if he sees you with me, he will lash out at you. I'm not exactly sure what to call us, but...I am...intrigued." The office worker persona bled into the flamboyance as he spoke, uncertainty painting his expression. "Are you sure you want to provoke my boss?"

"What's he going to do? Shake his fist? Spank me?"

"One of my ex-girlfriends took it poorly when Donovan publicly called them out. I...loved her, admittedly, and didn't see what a poison she was. Donovan promised me that he would handle it-I never saw her again. I would like to keep seeing you."

Ash gave the usual feminine look, but a hand unconsciously straightened her quills. The differences between them stood as night and day.

"Did you just ask me ou-"

"But again, that's up to you. I would appreciate you coming to the show in the next couple of days. Raise my interest and everything. Bring the cards, and I shall astound the crowd. And maybe you'll get some publicity as well. What say you?"

"And you? What do you get out of this?"

"The pleasure of your company?" He smiled cheekily.

"And what do I get out of this, besides the 'pleasure of your company'?"

"I don't know. For fortune telling, I tend to like it best when the unknown is staring me in the face. Here we are, two porcupines standing in mutual admiration of each other...well, maybe one. Here, let me show you a trick, as a sign of good faith."

He pulled from his pocket two things: A sleek set of handcuffs and a notebook, small. She recognized that particular notebook from the first time they met, locked in his pocket like a nerd.

"First, a gift. I saw your lyrics fall to bits. I'm not copying any tricks in this one, so...keep it."

She took it, but didn't mutter a thanks for the needless charity. It wasn't as if she couldn't get another herself for dirt cheap.

"Now, you have to promise me that you won't tell anyone this. Seriously. Magicians usually keep their secrets, but we've saved each other, so I think we're square." He held up the cuffs. "I own seven pairs of cuffs, each with their own passwords, one for each day of the week. They all look the same, but I got a different password, that can be put here." He gestured to the right cuff, and there were five keys that could be slid from A to Z. "Know the day, you know the password."

"Why the crap would you need to have seven pairs of hand cuffs?"

"My best trick requires seven."

Ash didn't really care on touching that subject. What trick would need _seven_ handcuffs?

"Now, I can get out without the passwords, but these help me if somebody thinks I'm a fraud. And if someone else decides to take them. Think NATO with the days of the week. Alpha-Monday, Bravo-Tuesday, Delta-Wednesday, Echo-Thursday, Golf-Friday, Hotel-Saturday, and India-Sunday. Know the day, know the password."

 _And why the heck would I need to know any of that?_

"You don't seem impressed."

"Can you do it without the passwords?"

"Can you write a song without emotion?" He bounced back. Ash flushed a bit. "I saw your performance, after all. Internet blessings. You shone that night. Perhaps you need a new purpose to shine."

"Who do you think you are?"

"A curious stranger, I suppose...will I get to hear a song from you?"

He laid out the challenge easy enough. Though he never once threatened her or cornered her, his interest had so obviously been piqued some time ago that all Ash had to do was kick the ball in the goal. But Lance's face, accompanied by Becky's, flashed in her mind, and a shadow fell on her heart. Uncertainty cut in line, pushing adventurous unknowns out of the picture. Pride, however, had a hand, and dipped a toe into that temptation.

And he wasn't that bad on the eyes.

"All right. I'll see you front row and center, ok? You want to hear me sing a new song? I'll give you one." His face lit up emphatically, but she halted it, her hand cutting through the winds. "But you gotta make my jaw hit the floor. Show me that you're so good that that jerk boss of yours is right in backing you."

He let out labored breaths again, but he guffawed. "And if I do this, you'll show me a song?"

She nodded fervently.

"Deal. But you won't have to worry about being front and center. You'll get a greater view than that, Ash...I believe I still owe you a meal, correct?"

"Oh god, you've given me what, a notebook, a magic trick secret, and now this? C'mon."

"As I said, two porcupines standing in mutual admiration of each other..."

"You're aware that's a one way street."

He audibly sighed. A bit of iron glinted in his eyes as he looked back at her.

"What did your ex-boyfriend do to color your eyes so jade?"

Again Lance's face flashed into her mind. She bit down the scowl, instead focusing on the area around them. They had a clearer view of the water, and the crowds seemed to be thinning out. Despite the jousting, he remained enigmatic and yet obviously invested. But Morty's face peeled a bit, and she could see Lance's phantom face lurking under the folds. He couldn't really be this kind on the surface...

 _Especially if he works for a boss that needs anger management that badly..._

"Come. Might I enjoy the pleasure of your company a bit longer? I assure you I won't press my thumb on your star."

His hand extended forward, palm open, eyes probing, reading, trying to gather something. The possibility of manipulation Ash could feel was there, just from the honeyed words he buffeted. But seconds passed, and he stood statue-still. He championed no other words to sway her, merely awaiting, almost pathetically, like a starstruck fan. Ash, having only Lance and rom-coms to fall on, honestly felt flabbergasted at the openness of his behavior. She kept an eye on his hand, floating almost aimlessly yet purposefully. A click faintly reverberated in her head, but she ignored it.

His hand hung in the air for a few more seconds. It painfully closed after a bit, accompanied by another sigh from Morty.

"Not today. All right."

"Look. I'm really charmed and all, but...look, we still don't...ugh..."

Morty raised his hands placatingly. For a moment Ash wondered which Morty was in front of her- the magician with really bad fashion sense and endless compliments, or the office worker with an almost deadened appearance.

"In good time then. I market no deception save my tricks."

"With that suit, you're marketing something..."

The banter pushed back and forth, unaware of the Internet's purloined eyes already sowing difficulties between them in the future. As they wandered closer to the center of San Francisco, they found a comfort in the simple pillows of their presence. Away from the demons of their own construction, and for a brief while in refuge, they found shelter, escape. Though Ash didn't know of any storms in the weird magician, she could sense it in him, as much as he could in her.

It promised turbulence, but they found a taste of sanctuary.

She did not think of Lance for the rest of the day, not until the next day, and until August 11th.

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners.

Author Notes: Thank you again to those that enjoy this little work. Special shout out to my reviewers. Your words warm my heart. Remember, Italics are either thought or past events.

Piano pieces mentioned are as follows:

"Greed, Shatterer of Worlds" (The Others: 7 Sins Kickstarter);

"Cohen's Masterpiece" (Bioshock);

Pachelbel's "Canon in d"

"Time's Scar" (Chrono Cross).

These will be alluded to. If you wish to listen to them, you can, but the first one will be hard to find. Lyrics also mentioned by "Ladies and Gentlemen", from Saliva.

Well, on to it.

 _Flash in the Pan_

 _Chapter 5_

 _August 11_

 _"Hey, Ash."_

 _"Oh, Hi, Moon, what's up?"_

 _"Are you heading up here? T-to the theater I mean?"_

 _"Yeah. Why wouldn't I? Don't you have those auditions? You wanted everyone there. Well, 'cept Mike. Can't find that mouse for anything."_

He let out a groan at that little detail. Frustration, at this point, was far too weak a word to describe his current demeanor towards his favorite crooner. It bordered practically dementia. Where had Mike gone? He thought again of the three bears that helped break the previous theater, but Mike had reassured him that all had been 'cleared'. What then? Had he been simply lying to cover something else?

Ash at least was dependable. He frowned when he proceeded.

 _"Well, I need a favor."_

 _"Sure. Name it."_

 _"I need you..."_ The last syllable trailed. A few pregnant seconds stretched painfully from the other end. The end of his sentence was on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue turned to lead. His teeth clenched, brain begging not to do so. He didn't know where Ash was, but he thought he heard the metro. He knew she had stopped to listen.

" _Moon, I'm on a dry spell. Besides, you're old enough to be my dad."_

 _"What? No no, not that!"_

 _"Well then, what is it? Spit it out."_

" _I need you to not come in."_

"... _What?"_

The spike of confusion cut into his ear. He also could sense the underneath: If he didn't know better, the hurt, underlying the shock, dug under the inevitable tempest.

" _What do you mean, Moon?"_

 _"Look, you're my rocker. But...I don't know if that guy's going to show up, and the auditions are today and..."_

 _"I didn't have anything to do with that! What, you think I tell my fans to hurt people?"_

 _"…No no! I'm not talking about that!"_

 _"Then what, Buster?"_ He noticed the shift. _"I know I haven't come up with any new songs but sheesh! Not a machine! I'm trying."_

 _"It's not about that either."_

 _"Then spit it out. What the hell is going on?"_

He belayed as much as he could. Another sigh escaped his lips as he laid out the hammer.

 _"It's about that porcupine."_

For a moment, the phone was silent. He could hear her breathing, but Buster imagined her face in his mind. Crushed betrayal, melancholy stupor, suppressed fury: he imagined each one dotting her face. He continued.

 _"Look. I love you, kid. You gave so much for the theater as it is, but…if that guy shows up and the fans cause a ruckus again…I don't know what'll happen. Have you seen the news? I've looked outside my window and they're cops on the side. If I have another incident like that-"_

 _"So you're putting me on the shelf?"_

 _"No, I'm not, but I need you to not-"_

 _"Yes or no?"_

 _"Ash, please…work with me here…"_

 _"Moon, you might as well tell me to sell my guitar. I didn't ask that guy to come."_

 _"Ash…I got the others here. Take the day off. Please."_

 _"I can help out! I want to help!"_

 _"Ash. I'm serious. Don't come to the theater today. Please."_

Ash didn't respond. She remained on the line, but the silence crushed him. A part of him wanted to hear shouting, begged for shouting, because he had long become inured to it. Critics bashed him a thousand times over, stage hands threatened murder on his head, yet he strode on with such positive energy. But he couldn't take the silence. It reeked of betrayal.

 _"All right. Fine. See ya."_

The phone clicked. It harkened to a guillotine.

That had been four hours ago. Ash did not come in, thankfully acquiescing to his request. Evening encroached the day, breaking through and occupying the conscious mind long before Buster realized what was transpiring. His fellow troop members and single faithful employee (which he only recently could pay) had long left, leaving him to silence and the rusty cogs of his work.

He flicked a double take at the old clock. 8:00: He had been working, designing, and trying to get more fliers for not one but two shows for the past four hours. The good news was that he finally managed to get the whole auditions underway (though he had politely barred the tiger if that particular person showed up. Thankfully, he didn't). The bad news drastically outweighed the scales: Despite no shenanigans surfacing this time, a dramatically smaller number of people showed up than before.

Would Ash have changed anything?

Buster sighed. The pen went down, dormant, unable to speak for him. His right hand reached for another coffee, the only elixir keeping him awake during all of this. His left reached absently into his pocket, brushing at the free ticket left behind by his rising nemesis.

That the rest of his troop was going to the opening night of his nemesis only rankled him further, but he gave permission.

The question of what changed chewed on the back of his mind. What exactly altered the circumstances? What scared the folks away from a mere days before? Buster tried to focus on the work with what he had, but he was fraught with exhaustion and the strains of his own troop. His pen intermittently tapped on the rubrics of talent, figuring pros and cons before being distracted by the junk that splashed out from the day.

Oh, the day had started out so well. Then he saw the social media based around San Francisco, fixated on the lives of their California celebrities. One particular picture made him spray coffee all over his filmography awards, but he made no mention of it beyond that. Miss Crawley had asked if the coffee was too hot. He lie in accordance.

He then called Ash quickly, as the auditioning players (he swore there were more!) marched into the theater. The rest of the beloved troop had been there, Gunter and Rosita and Johnny and Meena (Mike at this point would be eligible for MIA status. If he saw him outside of the theater, KIA), practicing and guiding the new tenderfoots along. What happened backstage mattered as much as what happened on stage, after all. However, Ash never came in…as he asked.

If the hurt wasn't obvious the first time, it damn sure with that closing statement. Being a teenager on the business end of rejection cultivated his ears to the finality of frustration and injustice. He had heard Meena trying to get his attention even as the phone hung up, but he waved her off at that time. This hadn't been an enjoyable task. In any other circumstance, he would've bucked the odds and welcomed Ash or any other player with open arms. A certain pink flamingo's scowl scratched the back of his mind. He made the right choice, barring Ash for the day. It was best for the show, and he couldn't afford any…inconveniences. He needed to keep the ship right…Nana would agree, and he could shut that flamingo up.

Ash would be all right.

Nana's interest in this, watching the flamingo maneuver on television, shook him. She had utmost confidence in his abilities to run the show, and make a profit while doing so. Before he could sigh relief, he ate it at her next challenge, urging him to outdo his competition. It wasn't just his show, she had 'politely' reminded him, and he didn't have the advantage of toiling in obscurity. Success begat expectations.

If he was going to get the new show off the ground without incident, he would need to keep the proverbial carrot from the rabid base. That _didn't_ mean he enjoyed it.

He gave his best stepford smile that day, so painful that his cheeks burned. His other stars noticed her absence:

 _"Mr. Moon, have you seen Ash today?"_

 _"Mr. Moon, where's Ash? I wanted to show her something on my page…"_

 _"Buster! My kids were wondering why Ash was on the weird websites…is that why she's not here?"_

More interrogations followed, but he bluffed as best he could. Maybe he could write a few more zeroes to hide it.

Unfortunately, some of the others figured it out, indirectly. Meena and Johnny had both sent texts to Ash; whether she responded or not, he didn't know, but Buster got a sense they knew. It had been such a good day to start.

His coffee drained into his gut, he returned to work. He attacked the notes with renewed aggression, but the reaction time was still slow. Rosy criticisms outnumbered the positive points. He couldn't look at a boon without seeing a flaw. He was exhausted, and he couldn't see the best of them.

The denial cut deep. Again the pen stopped. These weren't the best San Francisco had to offer.

"I guess I can't do this now."

He remembered this feeling, though Buster rarely dwelled on it. His recent success shone brilliant, but the shadows of his failures (mediocrities and flat-out failures) ebbed behind him. Every show he drew up and every screenplay he labored over, his face twinkled with a bit of pride. The effort and initiative shone out more, even more than the vacancy of his pocketbook suggested. He cared less at the time of his dwindling cash low than the art brimming from fingers and throats and hearts. He remembered the end of each, so well, wiping his brow and counting what he made when the last curtain fell. The ability to say 'I did it' rang in his heart like a belfry, but the weeks before, where he labored under the lights, grinding out new shows...ennui and distraction besieged him.

 _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ should be easy, but the parts didn't click. It didn't sing or dance or raise his spirits or made him gasp. It lied there like a potato chip on the couch.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw another list. While he had his fellow troop members in attendance, Johnny had pushed exactly as he said he would for the dubbed 'beta show'. _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ wouldn't fail, that he was most certain of. If he had to work tricks in there, so be it. But he could use the ideas for the 'beta show' for their next blockbuster after _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ , so what was the harm in looking.

He would need to thank Johnny for his efforts. All the songs looked good, building on the theme of the previous concert. Johnny had switched to Ray Charles (which he approved), but he also proposed a duet, buffeted by the arrows on the paper. Meena's name proposed something by Katy Perry, and Rosita and Gunter's, a bit more comfortable in their tandem, decided on something a little more 'opposite'. Mike and Ash's names remained blank, but Johnny thought even of that, tentatively penciling in 'Bing Crosby' and 'original song' adjacent to them.

He felt pride swell at his fellow troop members. That they were so willing to take the initiative…especially now…

The ticket in his pocket beckoned to him. He grabbed it and tossed it in the trash.

He really didn't know why Donny-Jo had it in for him. Despite the vigor of their confrontations, the flamingo only tossed stinging insults and barely a reason. All he wanted to do was celebrate the arts and put on an entertaining show. Did it matter that he wasn't a part of the show? Absolutely not. Buster could contently stand in the back behind the curtain, offering direction and advice. He had gladly shirked the grand stage and limelight for the sake of those better than him, expanding beyond what even they thought possible. It didn't matter to him whether there was one animal or ten thousands animals sitting on in the red cushion seats. As long as everyone there left home entertained, he could consider it a good day.

He never had to be in the middle of it. All he need was to organize and let the rest fall like dominoes.

His eyes danced curiously on the 'beta show'. He felt a breathless distraction, hypnotizing him to offer suggestions on the work that didn't need his attention. Ash would still be ticked off, so he reasoned he needed to make it up to her…and maybe the show would help after he apologized…

 _Maybe if we do this_ …

The pen regained its vigor, and danced under his guidance.

He heard two things, raising him after minutes of his stupor from his creative sprint. First, he heard his clock turn and yodel nine times, telling him that it was now 9:00 pm sharp. That was noted, but not enough to raise his head.

The second, and more curious, was the sound of a door, below, being opened.

Not a problem…until he remembered he had locked the door. And he was alone.

- _Sing_ -

Ash tried the hat-and-sunglasses routine, as she approached the ticket booth. Her phone rumbled beside her, but otherwise she completely ignored it, treating it like those crappy soaps she occasionally watched when alone, late at night. If she were someone bigger or smaller, her disguise would've been more conspicuous, but she didn't want the fans on her, or knowing that she was here.

The Blue World Assembly Hall bubbled up as if out of someone's nightmares. Despite its exterior being a drab black (and certainly not blue), its haunting appearance did nothing to keep the folks rolling in. Opening night had been cleverly broadcast by that damn flamingo, and so many attendees, curious for the new and seduced by his tongue, packed the lines. Ash had come early, having little to do, but she could see the line stretch past Knuckles' n' Chuckles and around the corner.

Ash burned a bit on that last part, checking the logs on multiple occasions yet never finding the one name that actually could save her anger. She clenched the anorexic phone, hoping to break it, its corpse of software a clever distraction from the source of her anger.

No matter how many times she felt it, betrayal never tasted like honey.

All she did was talk to some weirdo…It wasn't like she asked him out or anything! She literally, as if by freakin' magic, kept running into him. She thought for a moment it was even two separate guys that happened to answer to the same name, but the odds of that happening didn't favor anything.

She could take it: Fans adulating her she both embraced (in moderation) and deflected (if it ever got to be too much). The shock that fans would actually kick someone's ass in her defense, completely uncalled for, shook her, but she made it a point that if that ever happened again, she would step in herself and kick _that guy's_ ass.

Buster…she trusted Buster implicitly. Absolutely trusted him. When Lance lost faith in her, Buster pushed her forward. Made her better. Encouraged her with her songwriting. Even with Buster's mistakes, he was too good a guy to throw away.

But that made their conversation hurt a lot more. She could _tell_ it was cutting him on the other side of the line. She could _tell_ it crushed him to form those words, to tell her and order her to stay away from the theater for the day. The Moon theater had become somewhat of a refuge, where she could go and practice. Unlike her apartment, littered with the ghosts of her memories and silence only intermittently broken by her furious guitar riffs, the theater resonated with joy and people. She _belonged_ there, and they _wanted_ her there. So when she was told no, even for a day…

She broke her streak. Disgust loomed over her as she dialed six digits of Lance's phone number before tossing her active phone at the wall. She had seen Meena, Johnny, and Rosita all try to get in contact with her. She didn't answer, despite how touching it might've been.

 _Moon…what the heck are you doing?_

She had found Morty's cards on her couch. Damn it all, Morty had been partially responsible for this, and all because she had saved him from getting flattened. If she had known that all of this would've followed…well, she'd still have saved him. There was no way she was going to let someone get steamrolled if she could stop it…

Her teeth ground together. She checked her pockets for the tarot cards, and then again for her sanity. Under no circumstance was she leaving this theater without giving these voodoo cards back.

The queue finally reached the front point, and Ash pulled out her bills.

"How many?" The checker, a python, asked.

"One adult." She lowered her voice, trying to hide her identity. The python squinted, and then nodded.

"Oh no, miss, you've been paid for already. Sorry, didn't quite recognize you with those sunglasses at first. Compliments of the house."

"Shut up and take my money."

The python ignored her, heralding a simple "NEXT!"

Ash could only feel how this was going to go.

She walked inside, and the contrast utterly shocked her. The gasps in front and behind heralded her own reaction, but what a deceptive set up! The drab and dull black paint concealed perfectly the ornate opulence hidden within. A massive globe resided in the middle of the anteroom, with concessions on the right side and bathrooms on the left. Ushers in devilishly stylish blues and whites motioned for the ticket buyers, instructing either this way or that, balcony or seats. There was even a bar the length of the back wall, somewhat obscured by the ushers, which some older folks bellied up to. She smelled the vodka, the rum, the wine, and the hard soda from her disguise. Alcohol crinkled her nose, drifting to bars performed in the past.

"Miss." A booming voice demurely delivered called out. A gorilla, lacking any of Johnny's natural gentleness, waved at her, pointed, and motioned to him. She obeyed.

"Miss. We got your seat set. Orders on the house."

"Don't break the rules for me, big guy."

"Nonsense, miss. I got a daughter that enjoyed your show, and two, boss said to put you up front. Gotta listen to that."

She felt a blush form, not from attraction but from diluted embarrassment. Nonetheless, she complied, being guided to her spot in the very front. A piano placidly played from the front, each note massaging her mind.

She didn't like being pulled on a string: it deviated from her very person. Once she had been plucked and played like a fiddle, but Lance remained unabashedly absent since then. She was free to make her own path, and strum her own song in her head, but this Morty…

Morty was damn peculiar. Despite everything she thought about concerning this guy (and her sudden day off gave her time to think about it), he defied expectations and labels. She admitted to herself, in the sanctum of her apartment, his admiration was…charming. But she was reluctant to put too much into that. Lance was charming too, and he strung her on a leash. Morty, depending on what he wore, either attracted bruises and pain or attracted special flattery. She kind of liked his relentless yet quiet interest in her…but she couldn't for the life of her read the magician and fortune-teller. Lance, despite his deceptions, gave a red-light to more obvious things. Morty remained disconnected yet civil, passionate and yet neutral. Lance told Ash where to go when the situation hit on it and stole enough kisses and cuddles, all easily given. Morty asked for the pleasure of her company and had yet to lose his cool.

That would happen soon enough. She was sure of it.

Ash looked around. She caught a glimpse out of her peripheral, seeing (with raised eyebrows), the other members of her troop, all in much nicer clothes than her. If they saw her, through the disguise, they said nothing. Gunter in a flashy suit, Rosita in a dressy blouse, Johnny in a simpler button tee, and Meena in a casual dress, they were all lead up. Johnny stopped suddenly (Ash lowered herself in her seat, praying that they didn't see her), before suddenly heading back towards the exit, as if he was left something in his truck. They didn't see her, or acknowledge her, and she sighed a bit of relief.

The piano danced in the background. Picking up speed to the show time.

Ash looked around, seeing them being lead to the balcony. Her eyes though fell on another face, one that she was completely _floored_ to see, yet one that had clawed in the back of her mind…

Lance.

 _Lance was freaking there_.

Not in the front row, mind you. But he was close, alongside that slut that he cheated on him for. Sitting in the third row, on her right side, she felt everything churn and melt in rage forgotten. Chains erupted from the ground of her mind, pulling her free wings back to the earth of her heart. She felt anger just seeing him again, and she really wanted to walk up, shed her disguise, and punch the hell out of him for breaking her heart. Another part wanted to do the same, but to Becky instead, tossing her around and taking back her longtime boyfriend. A third wanted to seep into her chair, hide and pray that Lance (who seemed happy with that slut) didn't see her and she wouldn't have to talk to her.

All those emotions and more bubbled. She forgot the damn show, with only the acute piano chords penetrating her mind. All those longings, locked in her apartment, rumbled back up. She hadn't seen him, and yet the mere presence opened the heart again. She shrank into her seat, graciously thanking the burly fellows on either side of her. Although she couldn't help turning her head, catching a glance of his cute face, and her yearning swiftly metamorphosed into harnessed rage and disappointment. Guilt, ever the familiar, trotted back up to her mind.

She prayed that the show would start. Lest her heartstrings strangle her and her stomach explode.

With quite strong, dissonant, greedy cords, she got her wish.

The lights flickered low. A spotlight fastened itself to the board, and a figure rose mechanically by elevator from the depths. The piano continued to play, each harsh note signifying emotion. Ash felt the chords seemingly claw and grasp at the audience, as they died down and became entranced to the strong, vicious notes.

A homage to something darker, colored in the whitest suit one could find. A long-played, but well-kept piano rose from the abyss, revealed by the spotlights, and Ash recognized the damn flamingo easily. The chords stampeded on the ears, diverting attention, until it reached a loud climax. Ash's trained ears couldn't find a single note out of place. It was perfectly delivered.

Silence pervaded after the golden chords ended. The flamingo remained bent, his form breathing heavy, absorbing the work like everyone else. Ash could feel something almost cruel in its melody and beat, as if it built a statue to the reservoir of profane thoughts. For but a moment he stayed, but applause, recognizing talent despite the vindictive nature of his piece, muffled the silence. The flamingo stood proud, no cane in hand this time, waving as the politician, and procuring a mic for interest.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please…will you bring your attention to me. A feast for your eyes to see…an explosion of catastrophe…yes. I see we have a packed house. Well, we have our most diverse of acts, here, ready to dazzle you all. For those of you uneducated or lacking a program, I am Donny-Jo Vici. And I welcome you all to the first show of the Blue World!"

Applause. Ash refused the nicety.

"Well…I see we are in hallowed company as well! Challengers approach, from that beloved Moon Theatre!"

The spotlight shifted, focusing on Ash's other members held up high. They waved politely, but Ash noticed only Rosita, Meena, and Gunter were there. Johnny seemed to be nowhere.

"Well, I welcome all challengers from the throne and to the throne. But for tonight, you all are my guests. So, sit back, relax, have a tipple or two, and relish the wonders performed, not just by anybody, but by those _special few_. For starters, let me introduce a beast in every sense of the word. One of such might that cars shudder when she walks by. Mightier than ten of her male counterparts and hailing from the plains of Poland…I present…Blanka… _the Frenzy!_ "

The curtains flew back, revealing the first act of the night. Ash squirmed in her seat, hypnotized, but desperate to get out.

The chords clambered back down, but the melody bashfully contrasted the imagery of the next act. Instead, it peacefully lulled into the demonstration of brawl. Ash soothed herself with the aid of those devilish notes.

- _Sing_ -

Blanka the Frenzy was a buff lady tiger from Poland: That Ash could gather easily from the emcee's introduction. However, boasting about strength and actually demonstrating it were two separate things. Ash removed her sunglasses to better see; Guilt and anger bit back, demanding she put it on.

She wanted Lance to see her. She _did_ not want Lance to see her. The thoughts popped pistols at each other, progressively wearing her down, even as Blanka performed her trade. Trying to focus on an impressive show while Lance was there, well within walking distance...

Blanka twisted a frying pan the way some people twisted taffy. She grabbed three apples in her hand and crushed them all in a single clench. She purloined a car door from the stage, and bent the object over her head, folding it like paper. Ash's heart folded like that door.

Somehow, Blanka had procured a car engine, presumably from that same car she got the door from. The piano sped up, taking a most whimsical, timely key, as if from some video game Lance had played.

The crowd literally gasped in unison as Blanka ripped the engine in half, again as if it were paper. Oil and grease and nuts littered her singlet, but she seemed no worse for wear. Ash imagined that engine being her heart right now, tearing and fraying at the situation.

Still, saying nothing, no charisma to prop the events, Blanka reached her finale, this time pulling a full telephone booth, wrapping her arms around the whole thing, lifting it up, and then simply squeezing it. At first, it looked like nothing, but the tiger straining under the effort. Ash noticed cracks in the glass, each shard threatening to pierce the flesh. She saw the metal bars bend from the sheer might of the crushing embrace. She saw the telephone inside jostle and collapse. Her heart, mirroring all of this, compressed under Lance's mere presence. One side magnetized, eagerly wanting to go to him, wanting that pleasant fire. There was no cold, but swampy heat in her right now. First Buster gives her the door, and now this.

Blanka brought her section to an end, never once uttering a word, orchestrating all of it to the tempo of Donny-Jo Vici. The telephone booth, once working, folded on itself, collapsing uselessly. A furious round of applause followed the hulkish demonstration, to which Blanka curtseyed. Donny-Jo took the stage, even as Ash's hands continued to fight with one another.

"How awe inspiring! How brutish and beautiful! From Poland, a warm reception for the Frenzy, Blanka!" The applause went on, polite and enamored. Ash refused.

"For the second act, I must begin with a sort of tact. Some souls feel I can't measure up to the seeded talents here. Well, if you can't beat them, maybe you should join them...or maybe, they can join you. Anyone can sing, but to truly be a master, you have to have that gift. It can be found in anyone, big, or small. And so, I present, from a face never seen here in San Francisco, to a face you may recognize. A little firecracker of gushing talent, with the threads, luck, and skill of Ol' Blue Eyes, himself...Ladies and Gentlemen...simply...Mike."

Lance immediately disappeared from her world, if but for a moment. Ash nearly jumped out of her seat, renewed betrayal on her face. A part of her denied it: 'Mike' was a popular name, after all...but that mouse, decked in blue, like when he performed at the concert, walked onto the stage. A merry stride, overconfident and yet just as confident as he needed to be, the familiar (Ash added 'backstabbing') mouse bowed, grabbed his mike, and began the serenade of "Night and Day", with the flamingo as accompaniment.

Her walls melted as Mike belted out his soft lyrics. Despite all the anger, all the betrayed vigor she felt, memories of the good times flooded into her heart and mind. Rage directed at Mike was supplanted, for a time, by the good memories she had had with Lance. At the chorus, previous dates welled to the forefront: She remembered the haphazard dates she had with Lance, at movie cinemas and dragged to the gigs, the elation she felt of just being with him and his genius, each picture placed by the nail of his own lyrics. Her heart rationalized instead. Becky was the problem, not Lance. If she hadn't...

Mike continued to flow with his chords, perhaps aware of the spell he put his listeners under. Ash barely heard the words: Her heart gnawed and tore from within, demanding attention, demanding action. She wanted to go and get on Lance again...but she would have to throw Becky out of the picture...

Mike resolved his song, to somewhat mixed reactions. On the one hand, he received a massive applause from the audience, who cared little of show loyalty and instead enjoyed the presentation for what it was: Outstanding. On the other hand, a few jeers from loyalists and the Moon Theater Troop (Rosita had showed a similar case of betrayal) padded under the crowd. If Mike noticed, he said nothing. Instead, he tipped his hat, and walked off stage, slapping a palm with Donny-Jo as he walked off.

"Well, how 'bout that? Looks like real talent knows where to roost...I feel so liberated, and so thus should you. So, liberated in fact...that maybe a little sample of greatness is in order...perhaps my star should shine over the moon...well, as one might say, better the devil you know, than one you don't. Ladies and gentlemen...the one, the only, Mr. Mortimer Mephisto!"

In pantomimed action, Donny-Jo dropped his mic, returning to the coveted piano. A new melody, born of love and madness, cobbled out and pieced itself together in a ferocious jigsaw. The lights dimmed suddenly, allowing for a pair of lights, blue and gray, to form at the stage. The left side bathed in pewter and the right bathed in azure, Donny-Jo's feathered fingers danced over and over on the piano, smiting the mind with a fury of unconstrained, edgy sanity.

She never saw Morty slid into focus, until he shifted to the side. At first, it looked like his head and his hands hovered in mid-air, detached from his body, defying the very conventions of life. But he shifted to the side, and the gray part of his suit flashed on the blue lights, revealing the trick to his near invisibility. A traditional magician's top hat, keeping also with the bisected nature of his suit, flipped, rolled of his arms, and then landed perfectly on the piano.

Even his face reflected this impertinent duality. His lips twitched in accordance, both wanting to smile and remaining etched in stone. The moment passed, and he gave a flourish from his half-blue, half-pewter suit.

"Hello, hello, creatures great and small. Oh, and its Morty, by the way." He coughed suddenly. At the moment he coughed, a full deck of playing cards just flowed out of his mouth. "Well, shouldn't of eaten that."

He garnered laughs. Despite the apparent trickster mindset, he looked completely bored. He looked at his cards, grinning. His eyes seemed to catch at her.

"Well, I do have a full house tonight. I heard the commotion, but I thought that was just Blanka breaking the bank. But you see, I've been under the weather, so you'll excuse me if I cough a slight bit. Don't worry, I got something for that, but first. Better suit up."

He clapped once, eyes dragging onto him despite his complete sarcastic quips. A trio of bunnies hopped onto stage, each carrying a single hoop. Donny-Jo pranced on his piano, ticking his ivories, as the bunnies placed the hoop over him. His hand tossed up the three, and the hoop went up and down his body. The moment it went up, the garish suit of blue and pewter disappeared, replaced instead by a Valentine's Day red. The trick lasted for a second.

"Now, I consider myself a handy person, but I do need a second. Excuse me, ladies...who would like to join me?"

His hand extended out. A rapid number of fans, shrieking with a cacophony of ladies, answered back. He left the stage, walking among the crowd, surveying, looking, seeking...

Crushing realization squeezed further on Ash, as the trap came together. She had been prepaid, and everything right to her seat had been set up. Ash motioned to move, removing her hat and desperate to get out. She didn't care if Lance saw her, so exhausted and worn she was by now from the back and forth in her mind. Lance might notice, or he might not, but she was caught between a rock and a hard place. She could sneak under the usher in the back if she just-

"Ah. What have we here?"

His cultivated voice paralyzed her. He stood in front, hand still outstretched, his face unreadable. She could see his eyes, and she recognized the look on her eyes. She had seen it in pictures with her and Lance, but never had it been on Lance's side. She, Ash, bore that same, soft, quietly content look before, happy to be in the presence of another, even if the lower part of his face was locked like in a poker game.

Everyone's attention was on them, aided by the damn spotlight. She wanted to sink into her chair, to hide from the word, to hide from scrutiny from her equals and betters.

His hand remained out. Inviting, yet with strings attached. At least she thought she saw those strings.

"It seems we're in the presence of stars. Would you accompany me to the stage?"

Claustrophobic power erupted from those words. She couldn't read him; whether he was planning another trap, moving her around like a piece on a Parker Bros. Game or actually completely innocent, she couldn't tell. But he never once demanded her, never told her to come. Instead, he just waited.

The hand looked less like what it was days ago.

"Don't tell me you have stage fright." He jested. A kindred smirk, lazy but geniune, form. She could feel herself match it.

She filled his hand with her own. He wanted her there...so at least she would give him that chance.

She felt a squeeze from him, but his smirk morphed into a genuine smile.

"All right, lets begin. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe you all recognize the young rocking sensation, Ash? What a surprise."

Ash could hear the scandal erupting. She fought the blush forming, but she was in for a penny and pound now. She accompanied the madcap magician.

As to what other trickery he could bring up, she could only guess.

She tried to catch Lance's eyes...and could see his own surprise matching his own. A guilty glee formed in her mind, pushed back by the professionalism. There was still a show to go.

She could only guess what those handcuffs were for.

"And now, for the next trick, I have my volunteer..."

The piano droned in furious melody, speeding up. She absently looked behind her, and venom from those cold iron eyes of Donny-Jo blazed back.

 _Great. Another pissed off manager._

The bunnies started bringing out a very familiar iron maiden. Ash's blood began to turn cold, and she hoped that she wasn't getting into something she'd regret.

 _-Sing: End Chapter_ -


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is owned by Illumination Entertainment. Any OCs are property of me.

Thank you to those that indulge in this work. A bit late, but hopefully you will find this enjoyable.

Music mentioned in story belongs to specific artists: The Ramones and Two Steps from Hell.

 _Flash in the Pan_

Chapter 6:

 _August 11_ _th_ _, evening..._

Buster didn't notice something was necessarily up until he saw the shaft of a dirty magnum barrel poking into his office. His work drew him away from the immediacy of a home invasion, and the bulky feet creaking on the wood outside barely registered on his mind. As such, that gun barrel widened his eyes, and he ducked quickly into his hole.

It wasn't quite fast enough. Fast enough to get out of sight, but not fast enough to conceal that he hadn't been there.

Three gargantuan brown bears lumbered into the room, trying to be quiet but at the same time advancing so comically Buster had to hide his laughter. He instantly recognized the three, with their well-kept and expensive tastes contrasting the menace booming from their faces. The trio that threatened to kill Mike stood in his office, in his house, two armed with diminutive revolvers and the third hoisting a baseball bat on his bulky shoulder. Buster could read their intentions from just the weapons and the audacity of the invasion.

Why were they here? That he hadn't a clue.

"Are you sure he's here, boss?" Mr. Baseball Bat asked his leader. An absent hand grabbed one of his awards and dull eyes peered at the words.

"He said he'd know. He said he'd be here, Mikhail."

The Boss Bear flicked his magnum, checking to see if it was loaded and live. Buster peered from his escape whole in the wall, and could see that, yes, that baby was ready to burp at any moment with those rounds. A flick closed the hatch, and the business end of the gun peered around. That old familiar sluice of Russian accent rolled out of them, adding to their feral intentions.

"Lights were on here."

"Da. He's been here." The boss loomed over his desk, looking at the script he worked so hard on. "See? Pen's been used."

"Really?"

"Da, Sweet Tooth. Workaholic. Our guy said he would be."

"Nearby?" 'Sweet Tooth'- the other bear with a gun- asked, swatting things off of his desk.

"Maybe. Phone cut, Mikhail?"

"Da."

Buster paled at that. He could hear a chuckle animate from deep within the Boss.

"Ah. Well. Let's get what we came for. Mikhail?"

"Hmm?"

"What was your favorite American team again?"

All three bears grinned, but their joy brimmed and birthed by the sadistic. All of them looked knowingly at each other, and Buster dared not move, lest one of them catch him in their current inattentiveness. Mikhail balanced the baseball bat on his hands, and his grin promised malicious malefactors to his room…or his body.

"Damn Atlanta. Always swings, never hits."

"You hit better than whole damn team!"

Mikhail looked at the pictures, the ones of the Moon Theater reopening. His enormous clawed hands grabbed at the most recent picture, the one with him smiling with the troop.

"Boss? Mike isn't in photo."

"So? He'd come here with our money." The Boss clicked his claws once. Mikhail nodded, popped up the picture, and in a practiced swing, cracked the picture frame with a hefty strike. Glass tumbled all over the floor as the picture splattered on the window.

"See, you can't break window? You getting fat, Mikhail?" Sweet Tooth muttered, rummaging among the paperwork and casually tearing the forms apart. Receipts, mail, fan mail, bank statements, memos or scripts, he ripped into some and not others with the boredom of a thug. The gun laid inert on the desk, abandoned for the pursuit.

"Sweets! You try! With this!"

Mikhail tossed his bat to his other fellow, as the Boss lumbered around the room. One hand perpetually remained crowned with his gun, but the other pulled out a fashionable cigar and lighter. Buster cringed as the bears started to grab his awards and use them as makeshift baseballs on the wall. His award on filmography folded on itself, resembling more origami than the prize trophy for a film festival in Hollywood, after another swing. The coffee mug he drank out of exploded under the force of the swing, sprinkling porcelain all over the room, mingling with glass. The window, their convenient target for their distraction, chipped and spider-webbed, weakened to the point that a simple punch for the thugs would render it to useless shards.

"Moon! Wake up! We got business for you." The Boss bellowed out.

Buster dared not move. It took enough willpower to keep his nerves in check and his body from shaking. This was so unlike last time. Last time these three stomped into his theater, Mike was almost reduced to a stain in the Boss's claws, and they simply demanded money that he didn't have. Thankfully, he had been able to stall, and brute force meeting shaky glass foundations took care of the rest. The flood that he got blamed for, threatening to accidently drown all of his players very well saved everyone from the wrath of these three bears. When everything spilled out, they disappeared after the collapse of the old theater. Buster didn't know why they didn't stay to demand money again: Mike had conspicuously vanished, and he had been too broken to care about Mike's well-being at that precise moment. Had these bears left because the cops rolled in at that exact moment or because they were more interested in maiming Mike than worrying about him? He hadn't even thought of a reason; These bears had been far from his mind with all of the planning and work he immersed himself in.

"Moon!"

"If he is asleep, we can wake him up." Sweet Tooth said.

"Nyet. He's here, and awake," The Boss muttered, stomping very, _very_ near that hiding hole he shook in now. "This is his church, da? His sacred ground?" Cigar smoke puffed around, infiltrating his nose as he fought back, eased back the need to cough. If he coughed now…

"Why would he leave when everyone is watching that other show?"

"I wanted to go see that show."

"Mikhail. We can go later." Sweets countered.

"But they have real magician! Like Rasputin!"

"Mikhail!" The Boss shouted, demanding silence in his roar. Buster muffled an eep. "We get what we came for."

"And if not?"

Buster dared a look out, barely allowing a smidgeon of light to enter his hiding spot. The Boss had gone to his desk, pulling up the script that he had been working on in one hand. He thanked his luck as he saw the magnum sitting on the desk.

Those thanks to the Almighty died in his throat as he saw a lighter in his other hand. A simple flick of his finger claw, and a small, orange flame burst into life, hungry for sustenance. The script to _The Picture of Dorian Greyhound_ remained in his other, drifting closer to the fire.

Buster gasped: The idea of his work dashed by burly intruders broke the quiet rule in this situation. He prayed they didn't hear it: He saw the other two busily going about his belongings. One of them even ripped out some money from his wallet and took it, commenting that his driver's license had expired. The Boss meanwhile remained stock still, holding the piece of paper near the fire.

"Boys. Check downstairs. I saw some rooms in the back." The Boss commanded. A pair of mindless 'Das' filtered from them, and they both exited. Buster could see grins on their faces, even as they left, not by using the door, but by kicking it off its hinges.

The script remained ever so close to the little wick of flame. For a moment Buster hoped that the bears would leave, that they were done terrorizing for the time, and that would be that. The larger side of his brain, underlining his perennial optimism warned that something instead was up. Yes, there was a reason.

"I know you're in here, Moon. The longer you take to show yourself, the more I'm going to hurt you for wasting my time."

The Boss kept his back completely to Moon's hiding place, but Buster could tell something wasn't right.

 _Does he know…?_

The script dabbled into the fire, the hungry flames devouring everything about it. Buster bit his tongue to hide his dooming scream, as all the work he toiled over burned to ash in a matter of seconds. He wanted to jump out on instinct, to try to save his work as the yellowed paper folded to useless black. In a few moments the fire ate upon itself, the paper and all the ink and creative juices on it, faded from sight.

The Boss took a quiet drag of his cigar, then pocketed lighter for his magnum. Without a word, he wandered over to his desk, then hoisted it up on his shoulder as if he were carrying a child, the other hand consuming his gun like a glove.

"Moon. Last chance. You have _something_ I want. Come out."

He had turned forward, with the Boss directly facing his hiding spot in the wall. Aware that it was there: Aware that _he_ was there. The gun was pointing at the ground, but the sight of the bear holding up his whole desk almost elicited a yelp.

"If you are going to protect Mike that much…"

A tremor emanated from the center of the room: It took a brief realization for him to note that the Boss was roaring in power, as he hurled the desk with herculean power at his beaten window. The window never stood a chance, collapsing into piecemeal as the enormous desk smashed through, falling from the second story and crashing (from what he heard) into chopped firewood on the ground. Buster could only give that a brief consideration, before he heard a familiar cinema click.

The sound of a gun cocking just before firing. Barrel aimed _right_ at where he was hiding.

The bullet boomed out, slicing his big ears long before the bullet. Sharpened debris ricocheted as the bullet bore into the wall. That it missed him allowed Buster to let out that breath he'd been holding. That it barely missed him and targeted his general location caressed his legs into swift movement.

A massive claw ripped off the photo hiding him. Glass from the broken window flew towards Buster, having gotten caught on the Boss's arm. The bear mobster loomed back, light forking deep into his hole as the bear aimed his hand cannon into the tunnel. Buster grabbed a shard and turned tail.

"Moooon!"

Buster was already running, even as the cigar smoke mingled with the gun smoke. The bulk of the Boss kept him from getting a clear shot, so large his muscles were. Instead, he took out to the stage, jumping from rafters and planks as he ran for his life.

"Boys! Catch him!"

He heard again the telltale of a gun spewing its guts, as the other gun, held by Sweets on the _stage he ran above_ aimed upward. Did they care that he could potentially die and not get whatever it was they wanted?

The barrel fired, letting out more smoke of noxious iron. Buster kept moving, too slow to dodge such a thing. Instead of movie rapid-fire, Sweets took his time to aim as Mikhail gave chase, bashing pillars with his baseball bat.

 _Bad day bad day bad day bad day…_

A cacophony of noises erupted as Buster moved, trying to hide, trying to find his spot. He could hear the Boss from his office, perhaps incredibly faithful of his gang, tossing things on the wall, with the shattering of broken awards and picture frames entering his mind. Another bullet complete with life-cutting noise sailed past his ear as he found a curtain to give him some concealment. A baseball bat mimicked an axe, trying to bring down one of the pillars as he tried to find a way out.

The ropes remained tantalizing, but the moment he ended up on the ground, the bears would be on him. A risk, but…

Another gunshot: the bullet buried itself in a support beam, inching closer to his head.

"Damn it…"

"Mooooon! _Where_ is it!?" The Boss bellowed, voice carrying throughout the entire theater.

 _Gotta go!_

He rappelled down the ropes, letting a sandbag rise as he fell. The rippling noise attracted the bears, bringing Mikhail and his Atlanta-friendly bat to bear.

"Boss!"

"Whack him!"

He ran whole hog at his head. Intent on serving a pop fly with his head being the ball.

Buster gave a second to find his bearings. Three seconds and the bears would be on him. He saw a sandbag and a shovel first, before anything else, and lunged for those. That bat crashing into where his shadow stood, tearing apart the stage floor.

The glass shard he retrieved flashed out and cut a rope. Mikhail turned, already bringing the bat to vertical and fixing on Buster's head and floppy ears. So fixated was he that the quickly rappelling rope passed his recognition.

A sandbag, savior to koalas, slammed into Mikhail with an 'Opf!'. The massive bear flew, his bulk and center of gravity unable to stop speed, bowling him into the aiming pin that was Sweets. Before Sweets could get another directed shot off, Mikhail's fat form slammed into him, tossing hats and ego into a pile.

Buster never had time to even savor his brief victory, as a metal barrel slapped him across the temple. By itself, it shouldn't have sent him off the stage, but the slap exerted such force his petite body soared through the air and into one of the front row chairs. He heard the rumbling stomps, hastened by rage and agitated by denial, as the Boss jumped off of the stage, smashing chairs into stools with his bulk.

A feral claw grabbed his head like a melon. The magnum slapped his face several times, swelling the face with the unforgiving fury of steel. After six or sixteen of these pistol-whips (Buster stopped counting as the pain diluted his senses), The Boss slammed him onto the ground, and that familiar click of the magnum, ever ready to blow stuff up with a magician's flair, entered his consciousness.

The Boss loomed over him. A menacing confidence shone through him in the darkened stage. Fangs poked from his mouth as he grinned, pleased with the end of the hunt.

"Ah. There you are Moon." A foot stomped on his, eliciting a grunt of pain. "Now, if you're done playing…I have a question for you."

The barrel of the gun pressed on his eye.

" _Where_. Is. My. _Money?"_

- _Sing_ -

 _August 11_ _th_ _, Blue World Assembly Hall..._

Ash really didn't know what to feel right now, but if she had to form a Top Five list, _exposed_ would be the best word. Having hundreds of eyes on her rated as a normal, and even preferred day at the job, but on those occasions, she'd have her axe around her neck and she could cut the attention with a sweet rock melody. If that didn't work, than some ensemble with Lance would work. At the moment, that was completely out of the cards, with her hat and sunglasses removed by Morty's rabbit assistants (she swore she had seen those rabbits before), exposing her to scrutiny and torrents of cellphone capture tech.

She waved, a little bit of the nervousness slinking back into her, before squelching it down. Morty took lead, standing on his dominion, head bowed slighly but digits trilling a command. The rabbits danced and occasionally twerked, distracting as Morty mutely wandered to his spot.

And then she turned to the massive iron maiden, heaved up onto the stage with understandable awe. Morty took his spot, leading Ash by the hand as he went.

"Some of my tricks will need a steady hand. I trust one of your caliber can deliver as such?" He gave that lazy smirk, saving part of that for her yet getting the spotlight easily on it for the audience. "Though the Devil himself may have granted me durability, I would be quite...perturbed, if a star of your gravity were to _burn_ me."

The audience laughed a bit, cheerily in on his joke. Ash afforded herself a chuckle, watching as one of the bunnies swirled by, handing him a bottle.

"Vodka to calm your nerves?" Morty offered.

"Nah."

"Oh well. More for me."

Three more bottles swooped into his hands, as he labored to pop the cork. The cork flew high, disappearing back into his hands, before he moved to drink it.

"Oh, you though I was going to drink this? Well, waste not."

And he started pouring the vodka all over his flamboyant suit.

Ash's eyes bugged out at the sheer absurdity of the act, but despite ruining some very fine liquor, he grabbed bottle after bottle, drenching his body in the alcoholic masterpiece of Russia, ending it with the four empty bottles at the aside.

"Now, I earned the name Mister Mephisto through my mastery of the planes. As I shall show my aligned guest, I am so confident I will bet my life on it. For example...did you know what makes a Molotov Cocktail, my dear Ash?"

Ash's eyes widened, her mind unsure exactly what the hell was going on. But her brain caught on quickly when he pulled out a match, that eloquently confident grin on his face and his eyes keeping track on her face.

"Anyone need a smoke?"

He flicked it once on his face, creating fire with the devil-may-care attitude of a determined zealot. Morty's grin only widened at the prospect, before he let loose on the fabric of his clothes.

Ash reached out to stop him, concerned that someone would be that crazy to set his own body on fire, but the words died in the blooming puff, as fire rolled all over his clothes, tinging the bright colors in a vibrant plume of orange. His face flickering into sight with the flames bobbing and weaving. She felt the heat kiss her face, and instantly her eyes danced around for a freaking fire extinguisher. Donny-Jo's piano chords sliced and prodded the tension, poking at expectation as 'Mr. Mephisto' walked forward, twirling while bathed in flames, completely immune despite the fire coming remarkably close to his furry face and quills.

"No one? Ladies?"

The three bunnies jumped over, tossing him a cigarette from their spot while the other two grabbed a hoop.

 _Is he actually lighting that-yeah he's freakin' lighting the damn cigarette._

"Free smoke! Anybody wanna smoke?"

No one answered, instead gasping as he moved swiftly around, taking flames with him as he bobbed and weaved with the orange flames. With no takers, he turned to her.

"Ash? Well, me or you? I guess-" he clapped twice in practiced routine, "-Ashes to Ash, Morty to dust! New clothes!"

He snapped his hands, allowing the two bunnies to place the hoop under his feet, the fires eating his clothes as he posed dramatically, like a damn anime protagonist.

"Hocus pocus."

He spun as the bunnies raised the hoop, a blue and pewter fabric raising as they lifted the hoop, covering him all the way to his head. Hand still raised high with that lit cigarette, he snapped his fingers once, causing the bunnies to lower the tube. That insidious piano continued to creep its melody in the background, plucking anticipation with each chord.

The fires no longer kissed the world with their heat, vanishing by magic. Ashes decorated his body, replacing the blue and pewter dandy clothes. With a pirouette, the ashes flew off of his body, revealing a tighter fitting suit of black and orange, the cigarette dangling around his fingers, the red cherry at the end popping the dark. Proof that the cigarette knew fire. Proof that there was no fake fire caressing his body. But there was no pain on his face, just that trademark lazy smirk.

"Too hot? I guess this is a non-smoking section, right, Donny?"

The flamingo nodded from his spot at the piano, focused on the instrument of his choice more than the death-defying stunts of his worker. Ash meanwhile seemed utterly flabbergasted and surprised and a little distracted by his more-form fitting clothes.

"Well, how fitting. But I guess when you stand so close to stars-" He turned his attention to Ash, winking, trying to get her attention, as the bunnies maneuvered and drew attention away from him. "-you tend to get used to the heat."

He pulled the cigarette out, actually going as far as to put it out on his palm. His unwounded palm extended back to her, as drew her close.

"I've come aware that my dear boss has said some nasty things about yours, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"But you have such a _good_ show, and I believe that we can be dear friends, even...stars sharing the stage, if we can just trust one another." Morty weaved his story, his arms drawing attention with grand gestures. "Do you agree, my esteemed audience, that the Moon Troop has a most splendid of shows?"

Ash's eyebrow rose in sheer surprise: After all the tar that Donny-Jo tossed at them in the coming days, this magician was trying to shine attention _on_ them? Actually pandering to them? Ash scrubbed an eyebrow, and felt a nudge, as one of the bunnies danced nearby, lowered a guitar (not hers, but a decent looking one), and twirled away like a ballerina. Ash instinctively picked it up, catching the porcupine magician turn his head just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye, and wink.

"Would you, ladies and gentlemen, like to see Ash try a trick here? Would you like to see Ash trust me, or perhaps you've picked your team? Hashtag Moon, or Hashtag World?"

The audience lapped it up, turning in the direction that the laid-back magician could point. He backed up closer to her.

"A simple thing. Ash? Catch me."

And he threw himself back with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. Arms spread out as if he expected to fall into a lake, but close enough that she could choose in a moment whether to intercept or drop him.

Many thoughts zoomed into her head, but her body tossed them all hastily. Her arms lunged under his, grasping him alongside the guitar before his head came close. The moment gave her no time for deliberation, instead counting on instinct and decency. He looked at her, grinning all the while as she huffed in surprise. She couldn't tell if she was duped or just doing the right thing. She just righted him, back to his feet, his hands lingering on her arms.

"I guess we got both worlds, then," His hands flashed up, showcasing two of his cards from his tarot cards (which she freaking thought were still in her pockets. How the hell did he do that?) for the crowd. "The Moon and the World it is. A fantasy wrapped in pleasant circles. But still, might some ill will be born?"

His hands pointed to the iron maiden behind him, as the bunnies twirled around him. Donny-Jo continued his interlude of ivory thunder, as more props of mystical ornament arose from him.

"I have demonstrated absolute trust in Ash just now. Otherwise I'd sport a bump on my noggin here." He rapped his head for effect. "But do you trust me, Ash?"

His hand flicked and rolled, and with sleight of hand she _knew_ had to be there, a microphone appeared. Expectant. Curious. Patient.

"Do you trust me enough?"

"Uhh…yeah." It was the only thing to say, the only thing she could say, as she took the temperature of the room some time ago. If the whole charade was staged with a clockwork precision, or played along with the flair of bored speed chess, Ash felt hemmed into his box, and unbalanced by his unexpected charm and boldness. Nowhere did that beaten, broken rib office worker lurk here, in a porcupine that easily tossed fire upon himself and still kept an iron maiden that would've flattened him…if not for Ash herself. The awkward, detached nerdiness disappeared with the billowing ashes of his previous suit, boldly playing the crowd in his own game.

But comparisons to Lance instantly flashed, and the comparisons sown discord in her head. Besides them being both male porcupines, they weren't matching the template in her head. Instead, where Lance played her, crushed her, deceived her, never appreciated her, and lied to her without care, Morty gamed everyone in the room and yet let everyone in on the fun. Lance squashed her and lead her around to protect his own image. Morty seemed to throw himself out to give complete strangers a good time.

And their eyes…She found herself dipping into his eyes. Morty kept turning back to her as he spoke, riling the crowd with boasts and wit. Despite his attention on theatrics, he never quite could keep his eyes off of her.

And neither, she realized, could she.

"Ash, do you trust me with your life?"

He took her hands, pulling her forward. His eyes morphed, begging for her to say yes, willfully binding himself to her. The ivory keys slowed, building the tension, the hot spotlight shining on the careful psychology played out.

"Yeah," She drew it out.

"Excellent. By the Devil himself, I shall let no harm come to you. But, are you familiar with William Tell?"

The bunnies pulled her around, and all their dancing, amidst Morty's pandering, brightened into view. A massive bull's eye had somehow roamed onto the stage, situated on the other side of the stage. One bunny pushed the guitar into her hand, and Morty again addressed the crowd.

"We all know here that you are splendid in your work. Can we trouble you with a song? Perhaps, your original piece?"

Amps were maneuvered offstage as the bunnies positioned her right in front of the bull's eye. But her eyes almost bugged out at his next stunt: A threatening bow and arrow, ripped right out of the comic books, replaced his hand. A trio of arrows locked between his fingers.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have ourselves a duet. My cohort for the day, Ash the Chariot," His face scrunched quizzically, trying to find a nickname on short notice, but settled on one that almost made Ash roll her eyes, "will before a taste of delectable music for you. While she is rocking out, I think I shall polish my archery skills. There is magic in music, you see, ladies and gents. I firmly believe that Ash will deflect my arrows with the power of her hard rock. Yet, I will hit the target behind her, every time. If not…well, there's a song for that by Bovine Jovi. But…before we do so, Ash?"

He notched an arrow to his bow: The lazy grin unbalanced the sheer dangerous point of his weapon.

"Do you trust me?"

Her pick fell into her hand. Her eyes bore into his.

 _Its just a show, right?_ _Its not like he'd go through all of this just to hurt me..._

Menace pounded through her, and in a brief second that seemed to stretch into thousands, she caught a good look at her surroundings. The fear of death, as accidents could happen in the most protected of places, brushed against her nose, as she cradled the guitar. She became aware of her normal clothes, alternative and punk but not fitting for a show. She saw her fellows in the balcony, Rosita, Meena, and Gunter (Johnny was noticeably absent…), solutions of horror and recognition and energy swept with the show on their faces. She caught the strange, cold venom emanating from the eyes of the flamingo at piano, even as he doted on his keys. And she came back to him, the magician Morty himself, and the confident smile on his face. Happy to be there in that moment, happy to see her, and confident that everything was running smoothly.

Her fingers started playing, drowning out the piano. She found her voice, and kept it from sinking into quicksand as he let loose an arrow.

 _Hey-Ho. Let's go._

The music of the Ramones blasted out of her mouth, a cappella at first, then with appropriate accompaniment, as he started loosing his arrows. The first bolt flew past her face and crunched on the spinning target behind her, but he never seemed to lose his smile, despite how fast the arrow went. She keep her eyes lock on his, and he on hers, connecting despite the world of chaos around them. Rosita and Gunter screamed in fear at the first and second bolt's near miss. Ash heard Lance laugh as the third nipped and ripped a piece of her skirt. Donny-Jo tapped his feet in utter boredom with his inert piano, but the rest of the audience immersed too deep into the life-or-death situation.

Ash banged her head to the tough music, her quills actually shooting and intercepting the fifth arrow, knocking it out of the air. Morty raised an eyebrow, laughing at the unexpected return fire, but simply locked another arrow, and let it fly.

If she moved her head slightly, an arrow would eat her face. She bobbed her head to the music, switching from the monotony of "Blitzkrieg Bop" to "Teenage Lobotomy." The crowd fed off the energy, lapping it up with a drive not expected.

She reached the end, hitting her last high note, pulsating the energy of punk rock and the feeling that she was going to die at any moment, when she opened her eyes, to see Morty, grin immortal, pulling back on his last arrow. He mouthed a simple thanks, before coyly going "Hey. Ho. Lets go," and let fly that last blade of doom at her mouth.

A ghost seemed to possess the arrow, as it practically curled around her neck as she slammed on the last note, slithering and hitting the big red target behind her. The music shut down instantly, and Morty walked silently to her. Sweat and shakes emanated, her brain catching up to what the heck just happened.

 _Why the heck did I let a nutjob fire arrows at me?!_

An innate whisper, aware of the why better than she thought, was muffled by the rousing applause. Morty took her hand, and bowed, first to her as a gentleman, then as a stage act, inviting her to join. Cameras of regular, digital, and cellphone variety flashes like fireflies, capturing the pair in their immediate elements: Morty, practiced, gleeful, unabashed, and comforting. Ash, completely shocked, following his lead in unfamiliar territory, getting over the fact that he could've killed her, and surprisingly pleased at the whole episode. A controlled stream against a typhoon of emotions.

She felt a warm moisture graze her hand. Surprised, she looked in time to catch him raising his head from the back of her hand, having just puckered up in all of the emotion.

Ash blushed and raised her own hand to instinctively slap him, but the urge died as she saw him return to his addressing the fans.

"As I live and breathe, witness harmony at its finest. What say you, Ash?"

"Yeah…uh…cool."

A tittering of giggles from the crowd, but Ash caught on to the showmanship instantly.

"So," She wrapped her arm around his head, pulling him close with a yelp. A need to take some control, to protect some aspect of her image, fostered in her heart. It burrowed until it reached her skin, warm, and daring. "What other tricks you got for me? I won't kiss and tell."

The crowd 'ooooo'ed at the hint. Morty blushed himself, the shadow of the office worker peering out, before the magician slipped back in. A clever snap of his fingers, and the iron maiden loomed closer, the spotlight veering onto the scene.

"Ah, so you want more of me?" Morty asked. His head turned slightly to his fans, but his eyes remained locked with hers. Watery. Longing. Vested.

Ash kept playing along. She still had no idea what part of this charade he played with her. Instead, she wrested control, slapping the guitar a few more times.

"Well, why don't you ask your public? Me, or you?"

The fans roared, actually booming dueling chants at the suggestion. Morty shrugged in amusement, ever keeping in character, slipping an arm at her back.

"I appreciate a gatecrasher as much as the next, but have no problem throwing down the challenge. Let me show you my best."

Another snap of the finger. The iron maiden fell open, collapsing like an elaborate box of steel as each side slammed down. Instead of spikes on the interior, there was simply clean metal. And within, instead of spikes…was a tank of water.

"My straitjacket and cuffs, please!"

The ivory tones shifted back in, sliding a deceptive melody into the mix, as the magician and musician rounded the massive water tank.

"I'd wager, ladies and gentlemen, that even Blanka the Frenzy's brute force could not shatter this glass tank. This is 100% bulletproof glass." He rapped his fist on the thick panes. The water inside jostled. "Take an axe or a sledge to it, and it will not break. So…if you were a betting porcupine, Ash, how many minutes do you think someone can hold their breath? Three? Five? Ten, if you're betting the longshot?"

Ash blanched at the implications of the water tank: She had her own date with torrents of water before, and the memories of the great weight had been punishing to her. She recoiled, to which he noticed.

"Ah, can't swim? No matter. I wouldn't place this on anyone else." That he could guess so correctly bothered her. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present another date with the Devil. Not by fire but water will I spit in his eye, presented here."

Instead of the sexy bunnies, a gaggle of masked animals, lumbering low and hunched, clambered onto the stage. All wore clever masks of iron, fitting the tortuous scene, carrying cuffs and a straitjacket and even an iron mask of for a spare.

"Ash, what would you be willing to bet that I survive this?"

"Huh?"

Morty laughed heartily. "You are a betting porcupine, right? How long do you think it would take me to escape this?"

"I don't know."

"As neither do they. And what are the limits? Easy. My associates here will bind me with a straitjacket, and cuff my body with seven different sets of handcuffs. I will have this mask on as well, for effect, so I can't use my mouth to rip out. I will be submerged in this tank, upside down, and it will be up to me to escape this tank." He looked from the audience to Ash, "So, what shall we wager? My life for what? Set the clock!"

Donny-Jo, no longer twiddling on his piano, pulled a pocket watch out, despite the irritation on his face.

"So, Ash, since you have been a good gatecrasher for me, might I receive an invite to your next show if I walk away from this? Or perhaps an invite to a more…personal setting?"

Ash cocked her head. The guy moved the pieces so much she really couldn't tell what was real with him. The showman shone potently in him, but she wasn't sure exactly what he was.

"All right. Get out in three. Three minutes."

"Challenge accepted," Morty grinned.

Ash watched him climb: Watched as he stripped off his magician's suit to a long-sleeved undershirt, as the masked minions loomed around and bound him. The handcuffs went on first, two to his wrists, three to his legs, the tight straitjacket consumed him, and then the other two latched on from the straitjacket itself. The tank opened wide, yawning for the next act. Only Ash's breaths and a faint ticking cut through the quietude.

The mask slipped over his face, and the straitjacket pulled over his quills and body, making him appear as the minions whooping about. He nodded, then ushered Ash up to the tank.

Ash complied, and he lowered his head to her ear. The mask breathed out, tickling the fur.

"Push me."

Her eyes, for the umpteenth time, shot wide open.

"For God's sake they're staring and waiting! Push me!" He whispered again, tapping on the ladder.

She shrugged.

 _Good luck hot shot._

She dramatically pushed him into the enveloping waters, his body plummeting to the bottom in its bindings.

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is owned by Illumination Entertainment. Any OCs are property of me.

Thank you to those that indulge in this work. Sorry it's been a while, but as you might've noticed, I've been putting _Broadway Strays_ up. I will try to work on both, but my focus may shift from spot to spot. So, be patient. Enjoy, and if you have any marks to say, go for it.

 _Flash in the Pan_

Chapter 7

 _August 11_ _th_ _, New Moon Theater, evening..._

The gun barrel caressed his eye as the Boss reiterated his question to Buster.

"Where. is. my. Money?"

He heard the words, but physics and physiology gummed up the response. Buster wasn't in his twenties anymore, and despite his petite form, he had never been star-athlete material. Even with that in mind, the power of the Boss, flinging him around the room with but new, refurbished wood to cushion the blows, did no favors. He was rocked and pummeled, the differences in weight and might revealing themselves so clearly.

Buster had been in a few fights in his day, but everything about the Boss said that he probably once fought on a daily basis.

"Moon. Oh, nyet. You don't sleep yet."

A massive paw clenched around his head, and hoisted him up.

"You know, I'm quite fond of swimming...had a lot of friends that I meet, when I first came here. They...don't like the water as much as me. I'm upset. I tell them how great the water is. How beautiful and cool in the summer or warm in the winter it is. They still don't like it as much. So...after a while...I bring them to the Bay. They were sleeping. Wrapped tightly in their blankets. Figured they would wake up. They didn't. I was sad."

The paw closed on his head.

"You actually gave me a swim when I brought your friend last time," The Boss continued. "I liked that. Didn't like losing the mouse, but...my debt's been settled. Met a new friend. Likes the waters just as much as me, though he likes the weak Atlantic more so. So he tell me you still have my money? And then Sweets sees your little theater built back as new."

Bone rumbled and gurgled and cringed. Claws pierced his dome, but a feat of some pride kept him from screaming.

"You were holding out on me, Moon. Where's my money?"

"It was never yours!"

"Mike said otherwise. My new friend said otherwise. So..."

The barrel whipped his face.

"Where-"

Pistol-whip to the face.

"-is-"

Pistol whip to the face.

"-my money?"

Degrees of wits came and went with each snapping strike, with death's hint just behind each blunt impact. Buster tried to figure why, why now of all times, did this bear have to roll into his theater when he was trying so hard to get his next show taken care of. Wasn't a rival enough? Wasn't Mike's absence enough? Wasn't a very lamentable roster of talent enough? Was this bear's _burning of his script_ enough?!

He struggled for the words. The truth wouldn't satisfy the Boss. The truth simply was that he didn't have bricks of money lying around so ursine gangsters could waltz in and promptly beat the tar out of him in order to gather the money. The truth was that every penny he earned now, at least until his next show, was carefully guarded by Nana Noodleman, who would undoubtedly blanche if Buster threw her under the bus to appease these three bears. The truth was he had no freaking idea why these bears would be stomping in his home and occupational space for cash when the person in question that led them here simply wasn't around and had been more and more rarified in his sightings.

But a lie…a lie could get him killed. Yet the truth wouldn't be accepted either.

"Who…told…you…I had your money?"

"A dear, new, reliable friend. Better than you or Mike."

Too smart. The Boss, despite the hulking frame, belied some intelligence, or at least general purpose suspicion. He wasn't going to reveal anything, Buster realized, if he asked too obviously.

"Well, he's not much of a friend is he?" Buster guffawed, in spite of himself. Acting might just save his life. Or it might earn him a bullet for his troubles.

"I told you, he settled a debt for me. Ever felt money between your fingers? No feeling like it."

"Well, actually…I like the touch of coins in my pocket as much as the next, but…you haven't really met me, have you? Buster Moon, daring and maverick showman? Has as much sense as a power-walking whale? More duds than the Iraqi missile project? More shows falling apart than plans and protection at prom night?"

"You have bad luck. So what?" The guns pressed into his forehead, unmoved by his self-deprecation.

"Well, if I have such a rep for bad shows, what makes you think I still have your money?"

"Hmm. You were running a show. Surely you still have it?"

"Maybe your friend should've told you that?"

The gun remained where it was, even as Buster kept his best stage-face on. Breaking character now, losing the dandy maverick that played fast and loose with his money and drastically overestimated his chances…that would get him killed just on principle. He had already hurt the other two bears, and if either of them woke up, his escape routes and his chances would be burned like his script.

"My friend isn't stupid."

"Maybe he thinks _you_ are."

A slab of doubt smashed onto his face. Buster forced all of his self-control to hide his triumph at the little victory. The deception might not last for long, but he got the Boss doubting himself. The Boss turned away, allowing Buster to string an eyeball around, trying to get a sense of what he could work with.

He needed to get away: That was his first priority. Even if he wrestled the gun from the Boss, even if he legitimately could defend himself and shoot the Boss for basic home invasion, the act of killing sickened him. He couldn't bring the act to fruition, couldn't visualize standing over the Boss and 'busting a cap', as it were. Escape was the only option, and so that had to be.

They stood at the foot of the stage, part of the front row destroyed under the Boss's earlier jump. He still remained literally in his hand, but the Boss had lowered him slowly, matching inversely the doubt that Buster had slowly supplanted in his head. The grip was still too tight, but maybe he could squirm out if he remained slow on it. It was a warm night, after all.

Defense, however, seemed a little less forthcoming. The other two bears remained on stage, and the bat that 'Sweets' favored was above his weight class. He could probably escape to the rafters or hide in the practice rooms, but the night was long, and still full of terrors. Until he got the boss removed, he was still in mortal peril.

A single finger slip under the claw.

"Hmm. What of it?" The Boss barked. "So what if he tries to use me? He paid me still. So what if he attempts to screw me? Mike himself learned that problem with that! And you? What are you going to do? Pay me to make me forget? With that money you said doesn't exist?"

The Boss carried him up, one hand on his gun and the other on Moon himself, as he went up on stage. Buster noticed a certain namesake symbol still held aloft, carefully defiant of gravity by virtue of ropes and pulleys. The light bulb appeared on his head.

"Moon. If I have to tear this entire theater apart of get my money, I will."

 _Just a little closer…_

"The question is whether I should leave you alive first."

The gun dived into his mouth.

Buster garbled a few words, the gun barrel obstructing his phrasing.

"Hmm?"

Buster garbled again.

"Speak up. Do you need some iron to clear your throat?"

Buster almost rolled his eyes.

"No? So, where would you keep your money?"

Buster took his eyes off of his adversary for a moment: Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Did this guy recruit since they last saw them? Buster managed to find his watch, seeing that he was still in the vortices of the popular night, with not even the late cops rolling through.

"Everything here looks new…are you sure you're not like Mike? You send all of your money so no one can collect?"

The words curdled in, as Buster worried the flashes would come back. Lord knows he already dealt with that theme once, one that being his own flooding of his abode. Wood replaced glass, unfortunately, and it was sturdy enough to hold more than just the Boss. But was it sturdy enough to grasp a bullet?

"Sweets! Damn it get up! Can't do everything here!"

He leveled the gun next to where Sweets head was, and aimed.

Buster saw his chance. Limited as it might've been, he saw a chance to break free. Though the gun looked pathetically petite in the claws of the Boss, firearms still had a recoil. There would be a moment where the gun would kick, and suddenly the grip wouldn't be as firm. Perhaps he had a chance.

"Sweets. Don't move your lazy ass so I can wake you."

Buster thought he saw something move in the shadows, but he still couldn't put a finger on it.

"Sweets…"

He squeezed the trigger. Instantly the roaring boom cut into Buster's ears, whining and dicing his nerves so much he almost forgot to push against his fingers. He grunted in pain, both for his ears and for his fear (cause no one gets used to a gunshot) and for his repaired theater. He didn't care to see if the Boss had stupidly shot his own henchman or not, struggling out in the brief moment and rushing the seats.

"Running?!"

Sweets forgotten, Buster could feel the gun turn on his head. He leapt to the chairs and squirmed under them, just in time. A bullet whizzed past his elbow, eating upholstery and cushion trying to get at him. A guffaw, confidence belying the most predatory and primal instincts, resounded after the missed shot.

"This reminds me of old movie. How many shots you think I fired, Moon? Four? Five? Six? Doesn't matter. This isn't ending like the movies!"

He heard the gun click again, ready to vomit another fatal volley. Buster kept crawling under his seats, trying to escape his invader.

"Come on out! If you give me my money soon, maybe I won't take you swimming!"

He couldn't see the Boss, or his jacket, or his hat, or his gun, or his ocean of fangs. What he could do was hear: He heard the Boss stomp down the steps leisurely. He could hear the Boss sink his claws into one of his posh chairs in the front row. He could hear him rip it out of the floor, defying screws and nuts and bolts, with but a single twitch of his wrist.

He could hear the chair fly through the air, smashing onto one of the farther rows. Buster hastened his crawl.

Another chair flew by, and then another, and another. Rather than strike him, they bounced on the balcony above, missing with such humongous margins of error, or just bouncing on top of the seats he crawled under, attempting to crush him, pin him, and place him at the mercy of the Boss. Underneath the whooshing and swooping of the chairs, Buster could hear the Boss lumbering closer, taking chair by chair with him. The Boss probably knew where he was going, and why he elected to prolong the chase, to pursue so assuredly when he could've simply sat at the main entrance to the lobby, awaiting with his gun in hand…Buster could only conjure dark reasons for that. That the Boss was bad news, that Buster figured on their first encounter, when he took a bat to his treasure box holding his "prize money". That he was a persistent, greedy sadist that took some degree of joy in playing with his victims…that was new.

How did Mike even survive this guy? He was going to kill Mike if he saw him again.

 _I still have promises to keep…and miles to go before I sleep…_

The old ditty playing in his head, he pushed himself under another row, just as the Boss ripped the chair he was hiding under. If he had _something_ to distract him…

He heard a scraping noise…of a bat being patted on the hands. Like a slugger ready to slam the ball into outer space, with bases loaded and a terrified pitcher at the mound. Buster's expression turned cold.

He hesitated, just as The Boss ripped another chair, the one he hid behind, and threw it away like broken dreams and glass. The Boss could've been the Devil himself, grinning with the victory that one expects, when it was only a matter of time. Buster could even see Sweets darkened figure slowly walking, creeping up, the bat bouncing in his hand. Up and down, ready to send another fly ball into the ceiling, with the fly ball this time being Buster Moon himself. Buster couldn't escape them both…

"There it is. I've seen that face before." The Boss said, ignoring the closing figure of Sweets entirely. "Despair. You've lost. And now you're dead."

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap went the bat. Buster looked over, wondering how his new troop, his troop of hopefuls and dreamers would react, seeing him gone the next day. Would they lament and try to find him in the Bay, or would they be targets for the greedy bears? The last thought curdled him to action.

"Wait!"

The Boss and Sweets stopped.

"If I take you to the money, you'll leave my friends alone?"

"See! You did have money!"

"If _I take you, will you leave my friends alone?!_ "

The gun pressed in his face, and Sweets inched closer. Buster wondered where the heck Sweets got a leather jacket, or white sneakers, or why his face was so dark for a _brown_ bear, but the gun demanded more of his attention.

"No. You lied to me. You take me to the money now!"

"Then no deal."

The Boss curled his snout in such a way that fire would've died.

"Sweets. Swing away."

"Ok ya wanker."

The Boss's eyes widened instantly, failing to recognize the East London accent that emanated from the shadows. He raised his gun only slightly, before a thunderous crack, of wood striking and breaking and splintering on skull, pervaded through the theater. The Boss's eyes rolled into the back of his head, unceremoniously, and the loaded gun dropped. The Boss's mammoth form crashed and destroyed more of the back row chairs, consuming the upholstery as if his brown bulk were a blob. Buster reached out and caught the gun before flicking it back to safety, before he got a good look at his savior.

 _As if I haven't heard that voice before…still standing as always._

"Hello, Mr. Moon. I think you yanks call this the home stretch, right?"

Buster laughed in spite of himself, looking back at the stage before looking behind Johnny, seeing the two bears not only still unconscious, but also tied under the curtain. Sweets's bat remained in Johnny's hand, hoisted over shoulder as if he were an amateur slugger trying out for a scholarship. Johnny's face portrayed all the things Buster would've expected, and some that weren't. All the kindness and relief and tension of the situation decorated the gorilla's face as if it were a cake, but his eyes gave a reluctant hardness one could only obtain from experience in criminal heists.

 _So, being the son of a criminal has its advantages after all_ …

"Mr. Moon. You doing all right?"

"Never better. I almost got killed today."

If Johnny could sense the self-deprecation, his frown might've resulted from that.

"I already called the police, Mr. Moon. Was going to wait for them, but I heard gunshots, so I snuck inside. Couldn't bolt out there immediately-don't have a gun and all-but couldn't leave you high and dry either. That, and your locks were picked. See?" Johnny pulled from his jacket a small, bone-like key. "Skeleton Key. My Uncle Stan always kept one on him."

"Let me guess…You've done this because of your family?"

"No. Never went in. My Dad and Uncles never did home invasions. You'd get shot doing that."

"Well, this is a good a reason as any to get a shotgun." Buster grimaced, laughed, then checked for any greyer hairs on his head. All this excitement was going to make him age right into his coffin. "So, not that I don't appreciate you coming by, but what brings you by this late, Johnny? You want to throw me more ideas for the back-up show?"

"Mr. Mo-"

"Because the guy you just hit a home run on burned my script with a cigar."

He didn't bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. Johnny's face fell, but blossomed another smile, an attempt to see the silver lining in a failed home invasion. Buster, despite the optimism that normally pervaded his being, and despite the fact that he got out of this in one piece, could only look around and see the mess fortified about him. His entire first and second row on one side were gone, hurled around like clothes in a college student's dorm. A curtain would need to be repurposed. Bullets imbedded his artistry. Thank goodness he didn't have to use the Moon symbol in the back, or he'd have to replace that as well…

"Mr. Moon," Johnny's polite tones cut through his melancholy. "Help me tie this guy up, and we'll wait for the cops."

 _I don't think Johnny would say those words, but…_

Finding rope was easy. Getting Johnny to hogtie the Boss, Sweets, and Mikhail took persuasion, but Buster's stress had crested to a point that being gentlemanly and polite long flew for the winter. He had almost been shot and he _had_ been pummeled for a debt one of his performers still had yet to pay. Politeness would require superanimal strength at this venture.

"It's a good thing I came," Johnny absently admitted.

"Yeah. Thanks Johnny, I, uh,…I really haven't been myself recently. Too tied up in work."

"Pinky?" Johnny inquired.

"If you mean Donny-Jo Vici, then yeah."

"Well, that's where I came from."

Buster rounded on him so fast the koala's eyes almost bugged out.

" _You came from his show!?_ "

Buster, to be fair, had rarely if ever shouted or raised his voice at his talents. In general, he conducted himself as a benevolent boss, understanding the need to nurture and support the talents that could be great and to make mediocre talents as good as they could be. He took no joy in being a jerk, despite being accused of it when confronted with individuals that grossly overestimated their talents. However, tonight bent him to straining points, and in the minutes past, Buster would hope Johnny would understand. He had been challenged privately and publicly by a dandy that made no bones about his enmity and openly insulted him on television. He had to keep favor with Nana after said televised insults, reminding her that buying the Moon Theater was a good bet, not a poor decision. He had to contend with a crop of talent that made him long for the first batch, which gave him his current roster. Ash and he probably were on the outs after he told her _not to come to rehearsal_. Mike still wasn't accounted for. His planned show literally went up in flames. His rival's show was starting today, earning such attention that even the cops couldn't be bothered in a timely fashion. And the biggest issue of all, presently? Almost got shot and maimed for money that Mike apparently still owed!

Buster could only swallow his stress so far. Johnny didn't deserve it. He saved his _life_. But he literally was standing right there.

" _Why_ did you go to his show?" He asked, trying to control his temper.

"They were paid for. I went back to check on you before the show started. By now, I guess its over, but the rest of the crew went. 'Cept maybe Ash. I didn't see her."

"And Mike."

"Yeah, still don't know where that bugger went, either."

Buster ran a hand throw his face, even after all of this. Everything seemed to be falling apart. What use was a stage if he had no players to perform on it?

"Boy, I am getting chopblocked here."

"Mr. Moon."

Buster looked up. Fatigue was starting to catch up with him, and the urge to fly to his bed only bellowed in the back of his skull.

"It'll be all right. We're with you."

"Just…tell me. How many people were at his show?"

Johnny didn't answer immediately. Couldn't, because his face spoke volumes. But his reluctance to give an answer gave all the words he needed to hear.

"Packed house, eh?"

Johnny nodded solemnly, even as the cops finally rolled in.

"Well…darn it."

He took his little victories for the moment. Being alive is always a good victory.

- _Sing_ -

 _August 11_ _th_ _, Blue World Assembly Hall…_

The clock read 2:59 went the water engulfed him and the tank locked shut.

Ash had climbed down to the base of the water tank as she watched, and saw him morph into a mix of watered-down cloth, slippery metal, and gleaming, confident eyes. He rolled and rolled in the water, dipping up and down, up and down. Shoulders buckled and cuffs jerked him towards the base. The tiny links scraped at the water as he maneuvered, and even his quills began to eject, slowed by the water and bouncing pathetically on the glass wall. In the background, the flamingo paraded on his piano, laboring suspense like a chef caretaking a soufflé. Not weak notes prancing as a ballerina, but heavy chords like pallbearers shouldering a newly presented casket slammed into everyone's ears.

Aware as she was on stage, she resisted the urge to wring her hands. Lord knows she would get enough on the social media sites for all of this.

Even with his obvious struggle, the masked minions crept out onto the stage, frolicking and dancing in a macabre way, keeping in time with the chords of the piano. They raised their hands as if they were praising some deity for the safety of their master, their species hidden under linen and mask. Within the case the porcupine struggled still, not getting any of the cuffs off despite his obvious trials.

Ash thought about shouting out the day, but she remembered two things: That ruining a magician's trick on stage, _in front_ of the audience would create a hell of a stir, and second, that all seven of his cuffs were on his person. Which meant-

 _He's going to have to try each one to figure out which one is which._

He banged his head against the glass, positioning himself to where he was in a sit-up stance. The minions outside, obscured slightly, and one even went as far as to place a tarp over the entire tank. From being in the public eye, all of a sudden, Morty dove into darkness in addition to bondage.

She bit her lip, and wrung her hands. A temptation to break the guitar on the glass, to put an end to the dare and the charade, blossomed in the back of her mind. The clock had ticked now to 2:10. He had only been in for seconds, but all that frantic movement underneath _had_ to mean he was experiencing difficulties, right? He was so confident when he was telling his tricks, but Ash knew a thing or two about being submerged under the weight of water. A shower was nothing, but seeing a veritable flood- the kind the insurance company encourages you to buy for- hammer you around makes you a little edgy around water. To willingly be locked in a death trap for another two minutes exorcised the blood from her face.

She wrung her hands again. The suspense was drilling into her stomach.

Then the minions started doing weird things, still content on keeping the attention of the crowd. Hands waved like a party at the drug rave, three commanding center stage, while a fourth brushed past her, knocked on the tank. The tank, obscured as it was, answered back, and the minion moved for some help while keeping Ash at bay.

The pair pushed the tank onto its side. Perhaps out of desperation, or part of the act, the tank collapsed with a thud befitting the piano's might. Amazingly, the tarp remained obscuring the inside, despite the clatter that could clearly be heard from within. Gasps emanated from the shocked crowd, Ash among them, but the minions still seemed obsessed with the box and their master. Another minion stopped dancing and lumbered over to the tank, knocking on it and then helping heave it up. Up was down and down was up, and yet the tarp remained perfectly wrapped.

The fourth minion stopped dancing, and instead frolicked over to the water tank. Again all four knocked it down, forcing it to its back, then two grabbed each side, and started spinning and spinning and spinning the tank. It looked so heavy, but it appeared absurdly light in their hands.

The clock, meanwhile, read 1:25. Honing closer and closer to the bet. Twisting and twirling at the fancy of these minions. And not a peep out of the case yet.

She realized the piano melody stopped. Instead, clapping boots reached her ears as Donny-Jo, perhaps covetously concerned, stomped over to the water tank. His cane reached up as if to try and break the tank (despite Morty's earlier warnings), but the minions actually moved away, using their own bodies to block any incoming attack. Ash could see the rage and impatience on the flamingo, but she herself couldn't blame him. She almost wanted to jump in herself.

 _Do you trust me?_

He had said that, hadn't he?

"Hold it!" Ash stepped in front of the minions, pointing much like a video game lawyer.

"Out of the way," He hissed. "I will not have my star drown."

He was already moving to strike again with his cane. Ash saw it coming, and grabbed it, wrenched it, plucked it out of his feathers.

"Let him do it, he's still got time!"

"You wench!" He hissed. "Move! Do you know how long a porcupine can hold their breath?"

The urge to smack Donny-Jo on his own stage surged, but she backed up with his cane. She felt a need to smack the minions, but uncertainty about the whole affair did nothing for her nerves. What would she do? Where the minions a mere part of the production, choreographed to perform brute strength at the will of Mr. Mephisto himself? Or were they clever drones that used the situation to their advantage? She couldn't tell, even as they turned the water tank back to being fully erect. Even as the clock dripped to 0:45.

At a point, a fifth minion arrived on the scene, hunched over as the rest, demanding they get the tarp off with sigh language, while also ushering Donny-Jo back to his seat. Ash silently agreed on both counts, and motioned as well.

One of the minions shrugged, then clambered on top and started to fiddle with the tarp. Its burlap clothes got caught in knots, etching the seconds longer even as the others danced. The clock ticked down to its final minutes, reaching to the final countdown of 11 and down.

At 0:05, the tarp fell down.

At 0:04, everyone in the theater gasped in surprise as they noticed nothing of Morty remained in the tank save his cuffs, his mask, and his straitjacket.

At 0:03, one of the minions looped an arm on Ash's, and pulled her forward.

At 0:02, the minion removed his mask, revealing a porcupine with a crazy but lazy smirk.

At 0:00, Ash felt relief and shock at the switch, as her eyes looked back to the tank, and back to Morty- dry, unfazed, unbound Morty- as he basked in the momentary shock with a simple "Ta-Da!"

The piano stopped its cadence, and the audience applauded Morty for the sheer reversal. For they could tell _what_ he did, but for the _life_ of them, they couldn't figure out how he pulled it off.

Morty's lazy smirk, sitting across the bow, revealed no secrets, but instead a delightful confidence. Waving and bowing and gesturing to Ash herself (for what reason, she hadn't a clue; All she did was look like a worried suitor), he stripped off the linens to reveal his dual-colored magician's suit, also as equally dry as the rest of him.

"So, are you entertained? Did you miss me?"

Applause answered his hail.

"I _said_ …did you miss me?"

A thunderous roar answered him. Ash resisted the urge to respond back.

"Well, my friends, place your heart's desire in front of you, and there is no limit you can't accomplish, and no devil I won't counterfeit, to get to it. Ash, I believe I win the wager here, so…here's my number…so call me maybe?"

A few whoots and guffaws answered his transparent romantic ventures.

"But let me write you a card first." He pulled back out the Moon tarot card, but kept the World card nearby. A red and a black marker seemingly appeared in his hands, and he walked to her, handing her the World card and the red marker.

"Write your number here."

Still unbalanced, still trying to figure out what was going on, she focused on his almond eyes. She did as she was told, jotting it down without ever turning from his gaze.

"Now, open your mouth, please."

She complied. He responded by placing the bent card in her mouth.

"Now, bite down."

She complied again, aghast at the myriad cameras taking pictures.

"Now, 'cuse me…"

As she stood like a fool, holding the World card in her mouth, he pulled out the Moon card, and jotted something down with the black marker. Rather than usher words, he stuffed the card into his mouth, and added the marker as if it were a cigarette.

He motioned to Donny-Jo, who jumped to the stage.

"Ladies and gents, for my star's last little trick, he's going to perform a teleportation between the two magic cards in his and…his cohort's…mouth. No kissing involved, folks, this will be a transfer of space without crossing distance…and how might Mr. Mephisto pull this off?"

Ash watched as he mock-chewed his mouth, as if he had something there. He quickly broke the distance, where he was literally nose to nose, eye to eye, with his hands outstretched. A little confused at the obvious pull, she felt the temptation to do the same, but realized she already embarrassed herself enough today as it was.

Then smoke started rolling out of his mouth.

Although she had already had her mind blown on a guy willing enough to set himself on fire and nearly drown himself, smoke rolling out of his mouth as if he was taking a drag from his marker just added to the crazy. His hands remained far out despite the infinitesimal distance between them, but his eyes never once shifted from hers. Morty remained aware that he was on stage, aware that he was putting on an act, yet not once did he break eye contact.

The smoke disappeared, and he stepped back. His hand pulled marker and card out of his mouth, and he showed the card to the audience. Motioning to her, she pulled her own card out of her mouth.

It was the damn Moon card, with _his number in black_.

 _What the f-_

Meanwhile, Morty danced around like an amateur ballerina, showing the red-marker pasted World Card…the same one that had been in her mouth.

"Should I call CSI for a DNA match? No no, I'll take my bounty here… _and_ my bow."

Donny-Jo jumped up. "Give it up for Mr. Mephisto!"

He nodded bowing low, before pulling Ash to the front. Instead of forcing her from the spotlight, he pushed her towards it, gesturing to her, winking and performing a dual bow. Cameras of all sizes flashed and flickered at the jubilation. He nodded, then had one of his costumed minions escort her back to her seat.

"And that's a wrap for me. So, if you're interested, well, there's always the after party!"

Ash could've sworn he winked at her as he said that, even as he pirouetted himself off the stage, and Donny-Jo resumed his duties as emcee.

Ash remained a bit spellbound by wonder, unaware of Lance's existence trying to get her attention, unaware of the spiteful look the flamingo gave her, unaware of Mike returning to the stage for another song and the feelings of betrayal bubbling from that. She held the Moon card in her hands, lamenting that she forgot _again_ to get his deck to him, but at peace with it all the same.

The Moon card disappeared into the folds of her pockets. The troubles of what came with it could suffice until later. It's not like she _had_ any intention of coming up there…right?

It wasn't like she needed him…her last mistake literally behind her…right?

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -

AN: Just a funny note. That last trick was an actual magic trick performed on (I think) Jimmy Fallon's talk show with Scarlet Johansson. Given the obvious degrees of connection, I couldn't resist putting it in myself. Hope you enjoyed.


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